


Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dumbasses

by crosspin



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Food Network, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - everyone is a chef, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, M/M, Miscommunication, Online Romance, Secret Identity, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 60,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25432504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crosspin/pseuds/crosspin
Summary: [“Zuko’s a fantastic chef and I totally respect him as my competition,” Sokka says sincerely to the interviewer. “His technique is unmatched in our field. But at the end of the day, he just doesn’t have the knowledge of the craft that I do. So, yeah, I’m pretty confident that I can beat him out for the title of Best Chef Alive.”][“Sokka? No, I’m not worried about him. I don’t really think about him much at all.”]Tune in as Chef Sokka and Chef Zuko, the fiercest culinary rivals in Food Network history, face off to win the title of Best Chef Alive! Will one these two legends walk away with the cash prize of one million dollars? Or is there an even greater prize at stake?
Relationships: Aang/Katara (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 1279
Kudos: 1586





	1. Trailer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Note: only the first chapter is written like a script. The subsequent chapters are in standard prose.]

_**Voiceover: Introducing, the most dramatic showdown in Food Network history!** _

[Cut to B-roll of Aang, face shining with sweat as he glances over his shoulder at a digital clock on the wall.] 

_**Watch as four legendary chefs go head-to-head…** _

[Shaky, candid footage of Sokka running furiously up to Zuko and being held back before he can throw a punch.] 

_**…and find out who’s got what it takes…** _

[A shot of Mai reeling back from her cutting board, spitting out a censored, “Oh, sh**.”]

_**…to be named Best…** _

[Close-up of Sokka’s face, eyes wide, hands covering his mouth.]

_**...Chef…** _

[Zuko’s face with the same framing, but he’s calm and smirking.] 

_**…Alive!** _

[Aerial view of a hand opening a silver platter, fading to black just before the winning dish is revealed.] 

_**Meet our contenders:** _

[Pan over the four chefs, lined up shoulder-to-shoulder in the competition kitchen with their arms crossed intensely.]

_**Chef Sokka!** _

[“I like to say I have two specialties: meat and planning ahead,” Sokka’s talking head says with a toothy smile at the camera. 

Footage plays of Sokka standing in the middle of a bustling steakhouse, between a dark-haired young woman and a hunky older man. “This is where the magic happens,” Sokka says in a voiceover. There’s a shot of him in the kitchen, tongue between his teeth as he tenderizes a cut of beef. “I practice all my recipes hundreds of times back here before they get added to the menu.” Another, of Sokka using tongs to flip a smoking cylinder of filet mignon on the grill. “I’m a scientist, and this is my laboratory,” he says as he carefully plates the meat. 

“I already know I’m the best chef alive,” says Sokka in voiceover playing over posed footage of him standing intimidatingly in the competition kitchen. “But I wouldn’t say no to a little extra cash.”]

_**Chef Mai!** _

[“I cook because using knives on people isn’t socially acceptable,” Mai deadpans to an interviewer.

Cut to Mai in a posh, spacious home kitchen, filleting a salmon with deadly speed. “My kitchens are all over the world,” Mai’s voice says over a shot of her hands as they chop a row of veggies with a sound like a machine gun. “The nice thing about being a private chef is there are always thousands of people on my waiting list. When I get bored, I just pick one at random.” Mai uses the edge of her knife to scrape the veggies into a frying pan and then throws it across the room – it lands perfectly in its slot in the knife block. 

“I don’t really need the money.” The camera pans over Mai in her jet-black competition jacket. “I just want some real competition for once.”] 

_**Chef Aang!** _

[“I just want to show the world there’s more to food than just meat.” 

An action shot of Aang walking through the extensive garden in his backyard, leaning over some plants and picking a tomato. “I grow all my food myself,” Aang explains, and the scene cuts to him in the kitchen, peeling fruit and arranging it on a frosted white cake. “We’re all vegetarians here – even Appa!” Aang says with a laugh as he tosses a strawberry to his massive Saint Bernard, who catches the berry enthusiastically with its tongue.

“I want to win so I can start up my own food bank,” Aang says over B-roll of him beaming in the competition kitchen. “Good food is beautiful. It shouldn’t be out of anyone’s price range.”] 

_**And, last but certainly not least, Chef Zuko!** _

[“Cooking is like a river. You just have to go where it takes you.” 

The screen flashes an image of Zuko in the foyer of a massive house. He’s posed stiffly alongside a young woman and dark-haired older man, all three dressed in sharp black suits. “I don’t really believe in recipes,” Zuko’s voice says over footage of his veined hand turning up the stove’s heat with a satisfying _sizzle_ of his cast iron pan. “Making excellent food more of an art than a science.” A close-up of Zuko’s scarred face, intensely focused as he spritzes just a dash of sauce on a plate with a spoon. 

“I’ve won every competition there is to win,” Zuko says, the corner of his mouth turned just slightly up as he smirks at the camera in his competition charcoal. “Why wouldn’t I win this one too?”] 

_**Will the biggest culinary rivalry of all time be settled once and for all?** _

[“Zuko’s a fantastic chef and I totally respect him as my competition,” Sokka says sincerely to the interviewer. “His technique is unmatched in our field. But at the end of the day, he just doesn’t have the knowledge of the craft that I do. So, yeah, I’m pretty confident that I can beat him out for the title of Best Chef Alive.”]

[“Sokka? No, I’m not worried about him. I don’t really think about him much at all.”]

_**Follow these four culinary giants as they meet in our competition kitchen once a month to fight for the title. The last chef standing will be named** _

_**Best** _

_**Chef** _

_**Alive!** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! A few quick notes before the story really gets started...
> 
> \- You do NOT need knowledge of cooking or Food Network to enjoy this fic. Everything relevant will be explained. Treat this like any other Celebrity AU!
> 
> \- I am NOT a chef. All recipes and techniques are either fake or plagiarized from Food Network shows. If you have any suggestions for dishes/recipes I should write about or corrections I should make, leave me a comment! 
> 
> \- See that E rating? That's a promise! Just stick with me a few chapters and it'll all pay off in the end ;)


	2. Chapter 2

“Um, I know you must get this all the time, but…are you _the_ Chef Sokka?” 

Startled, Sokka looked up from his notes and met the anxious gaze of the Uber driver in the rear-view mirror. His face had been stuck in a scowl of intense concentration ever since he’d woken up this morning, but he couldn’t help but crack a smile at the shyness of the driver’s question. 

“That’s me!” Sokka said with a grin. “At least, I’m the only Chef Sokka _I’ve_ ever met.” 

The driver’s eyes went wide. “I thought you were, but – wow, I can’t believe it’s really you!” he said a little reverently as he pulled up to the curb outside the studio. “My wife is your biggest fan. She’d kill me if I didn’t get a picture. Would you mind…?”

“Not at all!” Sokka said, shutting the binder he’d been studying and tucking it away in his satchel. “Pass me your phone.” 

The driver fumbled to unplug his phone from the dashboard and hand it back. “Thank you so, _so_ much, this is going to make her day.” 

Sokka grabbed the phone from him. “What’s your wife’s name?”

“Vivian!”

Sokka opened the front-facing camera, but instead of taking a selfie, he switched the phone to ‘video.’ 

“Hey, Vivian!” Sokka said, waving at the camera. The surprised driver waved weakly over his shoulder. “I just had the best ride of my life with your husband here. I’d say he deserves a home-cooked meal when he gets home tonight, but that’s just me. Take care of yourself – I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my biggest fan!” 

Sokka ended the video and passed the phone back to the awestruck driver. “I – wow. Thank you so much. She’s going to go nuts when she watches that.”

Sokka took a second to respond as he fished through the pockets of his satchel. “Hang on, let me just…aha!” He unburied a pen and a business card and scribbled something on the back of the paper. “Have her shoot me an email here. We should be able to get her hooked up with some swag, if she wants.” 

The driver looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. “Thank you, Chef Sokka. Thank you so much!” 

“Anytime!” He slung his bag over his shoulder and slid over in the backseat to let himself out of the car. 

“One more thing,” the driver said quickly. “Is this it? Is this where they’re filming _Best Chef Alive_?”

“Now, technically, my NDA says I’m not allowed to answer that,” Sokka answered with an air of faux thoughtfulness. “But for the husband of my biggest fan, I guess I can let you in on the secret…Yup, this is it! We’re about to film the first episode right now.”

“Holy shit – good luck, man! You’re gonna win, I know it!” 

“Thanks! I hope you’re right!” Sokka said with a laugh. He opened the car door and let himself out. “Drive safe, man!” 

Sokka swung the door shut and looked down the street. A few cars down, Aang was climbing out of his own ride onto the sidewalk. 

Sokka waved as they made eye contact. He and Aang had competed with and against each other a few times, but had never really hung out outside of the kitchen. Sokka hesitated for a second, wondering whether or not they were on hugging terms just yet, but Aang seemed to have no such qualms. As soon as he spotted Sokka, Aang sprinted over and threw his arms around Sokka in a bone-crushing embrace. 

“ _SOKKA!_ ” Aang yelled against his chest. “It’s so great to see you again!” 

“You too, buddy,” Sokka said, returning the hug with equal force. “How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been great!” Aang said. He pulled away and looked warily at Sokka’s massive messenger bag. “Why’d you bring such a heavy backpack? Was there homework we were supposed to do? I didn’t bring anything…” 

“No! No, these are my recipes.” Sokka flipped open the top flap to reveal three fat binders, each stuffed full with pages and pictures. “White meat, dark meat, and seafood,” he explained, pointing to each one. 

“Wow…” Aang said. He looked a little intimidated, which made Sokka feel slightly guilty. He threw the flap back over the binders and tugged the satchel behind his back. “I don’t suppose you have a non-meat binder?”

“Aang, you’re amazing, but if you ever see me cooking a vegetarian option, you’ll know that I’ve been replaced by an evil clone.” 

Aang laughed at that. “So are you gonna be bringing those to every shoot?” 

“Of course not,” Sokka said seriously, clapping Aang on the shoulder. “These are just for the appetizer round.”

Aang blanched, and Sokka stifled a laugh. “Come on, let’s get in there.”

“Okay, you’re joking, right?”

“…Let’s get in there.” 

The boys let themselves in through the nondescript studio door, which opened to a backstage green-room area separate from the competition kitchen where they’d be filming. Sokka set his bag down at one of the unclaimed vanities and began to unpack his notes. 

“Sokka! _There_ you are!” 

He looked up and saw Katara coming toward him with a giant grin on her face. “Hey, you!” he said, drawing her into a tight squeeze. “You beat me here!” 

“Dad wanted us to get here at the crack of dawn so we’d get front row seats,” Katara said with a roll of her eyes. “I told him about the friends and family section, but he didn’t really listen.” 

“You’d think he’d trust me to save him a seat after all this time,” Sokka said, shaking his head with a smile. “But you guys got a good spot?”

“We’re right in the front row. You won’t be able to sweat without us seeing it.”

Sokka laughed, but Katara was suddenly distracted by something she saw behind him. 

“Oh my gosh,” she said, looking past Sokka. “You’re Chef Aang, right? I’m a huge fan!” 

“Oops, sorry, I forgot you guys don’t know each other,” Sokka said, turning to Aang, who was taking over the vanity next to Sokka’s. “Katara, this is Aang. Aang, this is my sister, Katara.”

Katara held out a hand, excitement plain on her face. “It’s so incredible to meet you in person!” 

Aang looked stupefied. He stared at Katara’s hand for a few seconds before finally shaking himself and taking hold of it. “It’s – it’s incredible to meet you too,” he squeaked, looking at Katara with his eyes wide. “You’re a fan? Of me?”

“Yes! I’ve been trying to get a reservation at your restaurant for _months_ , but no luck,” Katara told him. “My magazine’s trying to do a piece on you, so I’ve got the budget for it, I just haven’t managed to sneak in yet.” 

Sokka could empathize. Aang’s tiny, intimate restaurant only served one party a night, so the seats were always booked eons in advance. That didn’t really vibe with Sokka’s packed schedule – how was anyone supposed to know if they were going to be free a year from next week? 

Aang’s expression turned horrified. “You haven’t been able to get a reservation? That’s awful!” He yanked his hand away from Katara’s and snatched his phone from his pocket. “When are you free? I can definitely fit you in. I’ll just bump someone else.” 

Katara’s mouth fell open in surprise. “No, no, you don’t have to – ”

“How’s two weeks from tonight?” 

Katara opened her mouth, then closed it again. A faint blush spread across her cheeks. “That would be perfect.” 

“Yeah, it would,” Aang said, biting his lip. Then he seemed to hear himself and went just as pink, turning back to his phone. “Okay, you’re all set. All you have to do is show up.”

“I can’t wait,” Katara beamed. 

“Me neither!” 

Sokka cleared his throat. “Katara, Aang and I need to get prepped, so maybe you could…”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, you need to keep cramming,” Katara said good-naturedly. Then, turning to Aang, “Don’t let him intimidate you. He’s just a little bit of an obsessive nerd about this stuff, he can’t help it.” 

Aang laughed awkwardly. “Okay, I won’t.” 

“It was so great to meet you!” 

“It was so great to meet you too!” 

Katara grinned, then turned and walked away toward the audience seating. 

Aang watched her leave and then turned to Sokka, his jaw practically on the floor. “ _That’s_ your sister?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Sokka said with a roll of his eyes. He was fully aware of the effect his sister had on men. 

“She’s…wow. She’s amazing.” 

“She’s okay, I guess,” Sokka said, because, ew. When Aang still seemed like he was in a dream state, Sokka waved a hand in front of his eyes. “Hey, man. We should get ready for the shoot. You know, the most important event of our lives?”

“Right, right,” Aang said, snapping out of it. He began to unpack his own little backpack of supplies onto the vanity next to Sokka’s. Sokka flipped open Binder #3 to review a lobster bisque he’d screwed up on the last time he’d attempted it from memory. _1/3 cup of white wine, not 1/4,_ he reminded himself. _1/3, not 1/4._ A seemingly small difference that could upset the balance of the whole dish and send him home early. _1/3, not 1/4._

“Sokka, look,” Aang said, gesturing to the other vanities in the room. They were stacked neatly with a few sleek black belongings, and a leather jacket hung off one of the chairs. “I think Zuko and Mai are already here.” 

“ _Great,_ ” Sokka said sarcastically. He didn’t need to spend more time with those rich snobs than he already had to. 

“We should go say hi to them before the shoot starts!”

“Aang, no,” Sokka said, looking up from his notes. “Come on, what’s the point? They’re just gonna play mind games with us.” 

“What, scared of being face-to-face with your _greatest rival?_ ” 

Sokka let out a groan. “You know that’s not real. That’s just…network magic.” 

Aang tipped his head quizzically. “Really? So you don’t actually hate him?”

“Of course not!” Sokka said, exasperated. “I barely know the guy, how could I hate him?” 

Quite frankly, Sokka was getting a little sick of being asked about his “rivalry” with Zuko. You get in _one_ shouting match with the guy on _Iron Chef America_ three years ago and suddenly you’re half of the “greatest rivalry in culinary history”? Like, seriously, who _hadn’t_ Zuko yelled at on television? The guy’s temper was as flammable as gasoline. But he just _had_ to let loose on Sokka during Food Network’s lowest year of ratings ever, and suddenly every interview was all about _Zuko, Zuko, Zuko._ No one even cared about the food anymore! 

“Oh.” Aang thought about that. “I guess that makes sense.” 

“But still, he didn’t have to say that shit about me in that interview! Especially after I said all that nice stuff about him!” Sokka huffed. “I mean, he doesn’t even think about me at all? Really?”

“Well, if it really is all just _‘network magic’_ like you said, I’m sure he was just saying what someone told him to say,” Aang reasoned. “Nothing personal.” 

“Whatever. He didn’t have to listen.” Sokka scowled. “He’s not even a real chef, you know. He’s VP of something or other at his dad’s company. Cooking is like, a _hobby_ for him. Not like us.” 

Maybe it was wrong, but Sokka had trouble respecting someone who hadn’t had to grind for years in the brutal food industry to earn his own reputation. Zuko had been blessed with culinary clout from the moment he was born to Ozai, the CEO of Agni Kai, one of the most popular upscale-dining chains on the planet. He basically _bought_ his way onto shows like _Best Chef Alive._

Aang was like Sokka – he’d worked hard for everything he had, and had gone from being an orphaned kid to owning and running his own place before most people would have even finished college. Sokka thought Aang might be more offended by what an imposter Zuko was, but Aang just chuckled. “If that’s true, then you really shouldn’t be so scared of him! Come with me and say hi. This time it’ll be us playing the mind games.”

Sokka sincerely doubted that, but since it didn’t seem like Aang would be dropping this, he gave in. “Fine,” he sighed. “And – hey! I’m not scared of him!” 

But Aang was already skipping toward the competition kitchen, so Sokka followed reluctantly behind him. The set was lit up with blindingly bright lights and crawling with various members of the crew, all hastening to get everything in place for the shoot. Although on TV the kitchen looked like a normal room, its fourth wall was actually open, facing out to a mess of cameras and microphones and, behind them, a live studio audience. Sokka could see Katara and his father whispering animatedly to each other, and a few other early arrivals filtering into the audience seating. 

It was difficult to pick out Zuko and Mai from the other black-clad crew members, but eventually Sokka spotted them in the back corner of the kitchen. They were already dressed in their competition outfits – the producers had assigned Mai to the black jacket and Zuko to the charcoal one, which Sokka thought was fitting, considering those two definitely represented the “dark side,” or something (okay, he hadn’t thought the analogy all the way through). Zuko’s hair was already pulled back into a perfect ponytail, and Mai had clearly already been touched up by hair and makeup, so they two looked a little bit like royalty: attractive and aloof and decidedly _apart_ from everyone else in the room. Mai was toying idly with a steak knife and murmuring something to Zuko that was bringing out that annoying smirk of his. 

The pair didn’t spot Sokka and Aang, either, until the two were almost right in front of them. But when Zuko finally saw Sokka, the change was immediate. The smile fell from his face and he crossed his arms in front of his chest, eyeing Sokka with obvious suspicion. 

“Hey, Mai. Hey, Zuko,” Aang said, flashing them a genuine smile that Sokka really didn’t think he could have mustered himself. 

“Hey yourself, flower child,” Mai said bemusedly, with the kind of tone of voice that makes it clear you’re the butt of the joke, but the punchline won’t get told until after you’re gone. “Can I help you?” 

“We just wanted to wish you luck before the shoot starts,” Aang explained cheerfully. “I’m looking forward to watching you cook.” 

“Well, that’s real sweet of you.” 

Mai turned to share another look with Zuko, but he hadn’t taken his eyes off Sokka throughout the exchange. Zuko was totally rigid, with his eyes narrowed and his mouth pressed into a straight line. Sokka wasn’t sure if the look Zuko was giving him was one of disdain or just discomfort. 

Of course, even like this, Zuko was unfairly attractive. The golden eyes, the thick black hair, and the way his competition jacket was just a tad too tight around his biceps had all helped make Zuko the darling of Food Network. Sokka might have gotten sick of seeing Zuko’s stupid face in every Network commercial, too, if it wasn’t so goddamned perfect. Its angles and elegance screamed wealth and luxury, and even the scar made Zuko seem enigmatic, like a riddle waiting to be solved. Worse, Sokka knew that face was one of the favorite discussion topics among the fans who’d latched onto their “rivalry” with vigor. Sokka had never been insecure about his appearance before, but it was hard not to be when every picture of him was side by side with a man who looked straight off the cover of a romance novel. 

Aang nudged Sokka, interrupting his brooding. “Right, Sokka? We wanted to wish them luck?” 

Sokka couldn’t tear his eyes away from Zuko. It made him a little nervous, the way Zuko was staring him down with such laser focus Sokka worried it might start to burn him. But there was an awkward silence stretching on now, as Mai and Aang both looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to say _something._

“…Right,” Sokka said finally. He held out his hand stiffly. “Good luck.” 

Zuko glanced from Sokka’s face to his hand and then back up again. Slowly, he unclenched one arm from the other and took Sokka’s hand, in less of a shake and more of a painful squeeze. Contrary to his put-together appearance, his hand was unexpectedly rough, with callouses in the same patterns that covered Sokka’s hands. 

“…You too.” 

Zuko’s voice was low, raspy, and so quiet Sokka could barely hear it. Something about it made Sokka’s hair stand on end. 

“Is _this_ what you’re wearing for the shoot?” Mai said, looking Sokka up and down once quickly. “I didn’t realize the Network just lets you wear anything in the kitchen now.” 

“Nope,” Aang said, inappropriately chipper. “Just wanted to say hi first. Sokka, wanna go get changed?” 

Sokka felt pinned down by Zuko’s intense stare and the tight grip he still had on Sokka’s hand. Was he waiting for Sokka to say something else? To try to get in his head? Or was Zuko going to say something? _Whatever,_ Sokka thought. He didn’t have the time or the energy to try to translate Mai and Zuko’s affluese today. He had the competition to worry about. 

“Let’s go,” Sokka said. He tugged his hand away from Zuko’s, a little harshly. Zuko’s hand stayed frozen in the air between them for a moment. But then he seemed to catch himself, and the hand snapped backwards as he crossed his arms firmly once more. Sokka might have imagined it, but he thought he saw Zuko’s cheeks turn just the faintest shade of pink. 

Aang turned to walk away and Sokka followed behind him, trying to shake the feeling of Zuko’s stare on his back. They made their way back out to the green room, where the costume team was waiting for them with their smocks – white for Aang and light grey for Sokka. Sokka got dressed and then let hair and makeup do its thing while he cracked open Binder #2 and tried to silently recite his pork eggroll recipe from memory. _Six scallions, thinly sliced. One egg, lightly beaten. Four carrots, coarsely grated…_

* * *

Sokka was so in the zone that the hour passed by like it was nothing, and he was startled when his reading was interrupted by a shrill bell warning everyone in the studio that the shoot was about to start. He snapped the binder shut and turned to Aang with a grin. Sokka didn’t feel nervous, exactly, but the bell triggered a burst of excitement and adrenaline that made his heart start to beat a little quicker. 

“You ready?” he asked. 

“I’m ready!” said Aang, who looked anxious but eager. 

Sokka made to pound his fist against Aang’s, but instead Aang pulled him into another tight hug. “We got this, Sokka.”

“We got this,” Sokka repeated into Aang’s shoulder, hoping it was true. He had done all the prep he could possibly do. Now all that was standing between him and one million dollars was the cooking itself. And that was definitely something Sokka could handle. 

He flipped his binders shut and packed them back away into his bag. Using notes during the competition was strictly prohibited. “Bye, guys,” Sokka said to them wistfully. “See you soon.”

Sokka went with Aang back out to the set, where the judges had taken their seats and the audience seating was now totally packed. Members of the film crew were zipping around the kitchen making last minute adjustments, and Sokka could see that across the room, one was dabbing just a little more powder on Zuko’s jaw. 

“Sokka!” 

Sokka grinned and whipped around at the sound of the familiar voice. He brought his hand and fist together and swept into a low bow. “Master.”

“Sokka, I told you not to call me that anymore,” Piandao said, yanking Sokka shoulder up from the bow and folding him into a tight hug – Sokka seemed to be getting a lot of those today. “I’m so happy you’re a part of this. I’m really looking forward to seeing how far you’ve come.” 

“I won’t let you down,” Sokka promised. It definitely brought him some comfort that his oldest mentor would be hosting the competition. Since Piandao wasn’t judging, no one could claim the casting gave Sokka any sort of upper hand. And if having Piandao there helped calm Sokka’s nerves a little bit as the competition clock counted down, well, then that was just a way of using the terrain to his advantage. 

“I know you won’t, Sokka,” Piandao said, pulling back with a twinkle in his eye. 

A young man in black grabbed Sokka’s arm. “We need you over here, Chef Sokka,” he said nervously, and so Sokka gave Piandao an apologetic wave and allowed himself to be led over to the judge’s table. Aang, Mai and Zuko were being corralled over as well, and a producer positioned them in a perfectly-spaced line while a sound engineer mic’d them up. Some announcement was being played over a loudspeaker, telling the audience to silence their voices and their cell phones. Sokka shot a thumbs up to his father and Katara, and the two beamed and silently reciprocated. 

“We’re good here,” the sound engineer said.

“Us too,” said a voice from behind one of the cameras. 

Piandao stepped up in front of the line of chefs. An intern darted in to make one last adjustment to his collar and then scurried away. 

“ALRIGHT PEOPLE, WE’RE ABOUT TO START ROLLING,” one of the producers yelled, and then a true silence fell over the set. 

Sokka glanced to his side. To his left was Mai, and to her left, Zuko. Zuko didn’t look nervous, nor did he have the same air of discomfort as earlier. His face had repositioned itself into its signature smirk, like he’d already won the jackpot and the cooking part was just a formality. 

Sokka allowed himself one tiny eyeroll before getting into full-on competition mode. 

A member of the crew was counting down with their fingers. _Three…two…one,_ they signed, before pointing at Piandao. 

“ _Ladies and gentlemen,_ ” Piandao boomed. “Welcome to premiere of the first ever _Best Chef Alive,_ where these four culinary masterminds will face off for the title and the chance to win one…million…dollars!” 

The audience began to cheer, and Sokka let himself tune out a little. Now that the lights, cameras, and audience members were all facing him, it was hard not to feel just a tad anxious. He forced himself to breathe in and out as Piandao introduced the chefs and explained the rules of the competition. 

“Four chefs stand before you today. They will each have one hour to create their best appetizer. By the end of this round, one chef will be eliminated and only three will remain to compete in next month’s entre round.” The audience whooped and clapped, and Sokka heard someone scream, “ _I LOVE YOU CHEF ZUKO!_ ” 

“As you all know, there is one more ingredient to this battle: our secret ingredient.” Piandao stepped to the side, over to a table that was covered with a metal box. “All the chefs must incorporate this ingredient seamlessly into their dishes today. As soon as the ingredient is revealed, the clock will start and the chefs will get cooking.” 

Sokka swore Piandao smiled at him before turning to the audience with exaggerated bravado. “ _Are. You. Ready?_ ” 

The audience went nuts. Sokka’s heart was beating so quick he thought he might pass out. 

“ _AND THE SECRET INGREDIENT…IS…_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

“… _RHUBARB!_ ” 

As massive piles of the ingredient were unveiled to the audience with a flourish, Sokka’s eyes slammed shut. On both sides of himself he heard the rapid shuffling of feet as the other chefs began to sprint toward the pantry, but he forced himself not to care. He forced himself to take a moment and _plan._

_Rhubarb_ …a sour, bitter vegetable shaped like a leafy, pink stalk of celery. Kind of an odd choice for this round; it was more often found in a dessert than an appetizer, and typically paired well with fruit or sugar. Sokka dove through the maze of his mind, searching for a formula he could plug this new variable into…

… _There!_

Binder #1, tab 47. _Chinese fried chicken with apple cider glaze_ – one of his favorite appetizers to make because no one could cook a perfect chicken like Sokka, and he knew it. He read over his own typed notes in his mind’s eye. _Marinade can be supplemented with cranberries, raspberries, or…rhubarb!_

He pumped a fist into the air. This was it – he had a plan! 

Sokka’s eyes flew open. He turned and dashed toward the pantry, so fast he barely noticed that Zuko was still standing next to him, eyeing the table of rhubarb with casual curiosity. 

Mai and Aang were already holding half-full baskets of ingredients when Sokka darted into the pantry behind them. While they fought it out in the fruit section, Sokka stared down the available chicken wings. Proper selection was so crucial, and yet he had so little time…With lightning speed and a couple snap judgments, Sokka threw the best of the wings into his basket and then rushed over to the spice rack. _Rosemary, thyme, salt, pepper,_ he recited to himself as he tossed each into stash. Then he raced around and grabbed the other ingredients he needed for the marinade – _apple cider, honey, butter, flour, cornstarch, eggs…_

Sokka ran out of the pantry toward his work station, leaving behind Mai and Aang as they battled for the best of the strawberries. The most important, most _crucial_ part of this recipe was allowing the chicken to marinate as long as possible. Sokka had trained for this – with practiced speed, he unwrapped, washed and patted the chicken down dry. His hands only barely shook as he _carefully,_ carefully measured out the rest of the ingredients into a mixing bowl and whisked them together into a thick paste. Now he just had to throw the chicken in – 

_Shit. The fucking rhubarb!_

Sokka facepalmed, then turned and ran toward the pile of rhubarb stacked up on the table near the judges. He was so focused that he barely saw Zuko, who was still standing next to the display and staring thoughtfully at the vegetables. 

Sokka nearly ran straight into him. At the last second, his brain finally made contact with his feet and he ducked out of the way, so hard he almost lost his balance. As his body tipped dangerously to the side, his arms reached out for purchase and grabbed – Zuko. 

The muscles of Zuko’s arm tensed as he turned and threw a shocked look toward Sokka. 

“ _Sorry!_ ” Sokka said. He might have been more mortified if he literally did not have time to experience emotion in any way, shape, or form right now. He hastily released Zuko and grabbed a handful of rhubarb stalks, then turned and ran back to his workstation before he could even see the rest of Zuko’s reaction. Sokka was pretty sure his brain would have plenty of time to remind him of that bit of unbearable awkwardness later. 

Aang and Mai had arrived at their workstations now, too, although Sokka didn’t have the headspace to take in what they were doing. Sokka threw the rhubarb onto his cutting board and diced it as quickly as he could. _Oh, to be Mai right now,_ he thought wistfully as the sound of her chopping filled the kitchen like a barrage of gunfire. Once the rhubarb was small enough that he was satisfied, Sokka fumbled around in his cabinet and located a food processer. He plugged it in, tossed in the veggies, and let the little blades get to work pulverizing them into gunk. Finally, he mixed the blended rhubarb into his marinade and tossed in the chicken. 

Sokka let himself exhale. The rest of the recipe would be much less time-sensitive. He could focus on the sauce and the side for almost the entire rest of the round before throwing the chicken in the fryer at the last minute. The first hurdle of this obstacle course had already gone perfectly. 

He glanced at the clock – they were already ten minutes in. So little time had passed, and yet it was worth so much here in the competition kitchen. 

To Sokka’s right, Aang was fighting with a vegetable grinder and surrounded by minced fruits and veggies. On the other side, Mai breaking up a hunk of dough into smaller pieces and lining them up on a baking sheet. To her left, Zuko was…nowhere to be seen. 

Sokka did a double-take. Where was Zuko? 

He looked around the kitchen and spotted him – Zuko was still over by the heaps of rhubarb where Sokka had nearly plowed into him minutes before. Now it looked like Zuko had picked up one of the stalks and was examining it closely, holding it up to his nose to take a sniff. 

Sokka stifled a snort. If Zuko was just going to hang around the kitchen all day eating the ingredients instead of cooking with them, that was fine with Sokka. That just gave him one less thing to worry about. 

Feeling a bit more leisurely, Sokka headed back to the pantry and picked out a basketful of potatoes along with a few other spices. Then, back at his workstation, he preheated the oven and began to wash and chop the potatoes into fry-shaped wedges. By now, Piandao was beginning to make his way around the kitchen with the camera crew, so Sokka wiped some sweat off his brow and set his face into an expression he hoped resembled a sort of sexy determination. 

“Need any help with that, Aang?” Piandao asked playfully as Aang worked to empty out a giant vegetable grinder into an equally giant cooking pot. 

“Thanks, but I think I’ve got a handle on it,” Aang wheezed with an endearing smile. “ _GO AANG!_ ” someone yelled out from the studio audience, and – wait, was that Katara? 

Sokka cleared that thought from his head as the camera crew approached him. “And Sokka. What do we have here?” Piandao asked. 

“Well, my Gran-Gran always told me no meal is complete without the vegetables,” Sokka said just as he began to pour an obscene amount of oil and salt over the slices of potato. Then he looked straight into the camera. “This one’s for you, Gran-Gran. I didn’t forget what you taught me!” 

_She’s going to love that,_ Sokka thought as he imagined her tuning in on her couch at home. Hakoda probably felt the same way, judging by the deep laughter Sokka heard coming from his seat in the audience. 

“I’m sure she’d be proud,” Piandao said as he moved down the line. Mai had transferred her baking sheet into the oven and was now focused on chopping up a cut of light meat that Sokka couldn’t quite make out from his own workstation. It wasn’t chicken, but it was definitely some sort of fowl… 

“Mai, what are you working on?” Piandao said as he peered over her quick-moving hands. 

“Pheasant,” Mai answered casually. Sokka rolled his eyes. Leave it to Mai to be too good for regular poultry. Of course, Sokka loved cooking with pheasant himself, but he rarely got the opportunity. For a posh private chef like Mai, it was probably a daily staple. 

“Tell me, Mai, just between you and I,” Piandao said, leaning in a little. “When are you going to confirm these rumors about you and Zuko? You know it’s all everyone’s talking about.”

Mai smirked without looking up from her meat. “All I can say is, Zuko will always hold a special place in my heart,” she answered mischievously. 

That earned another eyeroll from Sokka. Everyone knew the two had a secret _thing._ Why did they have to be so cagey about it? 

“Speaking of Zuko, where is he?” Piandao asked, this time genuinely looking for an answer. 

He turned to the side, and Sokka followed his gaze to where Zuko was standing, still only a few feet where they’d all started out. He was carefully thumbing through the remaining stalks of rhubarb, plucking a few out from the rest. “Zuko, just so you know, this is a timed competition,” Piandao called out to him. 

Zuko turned back to face the cameras. He didn’t look at all affected by Piandao’s words, or by the rapid passage of time marked by the giant digital clock haunting them from the wall. Zuko was calm. Collected. _Smug._ “I’m well aware,” he said softly. 

Sokka _had_ to beat him. 

He seasoned the last of the potato wedges and tossed the baking sheet into the oven. Now that those were cooking, it was time to rev up the fryers and get his sauce going. Sokka jogged back over to the pantry for a third load. Since he only needed a few things, he decided to forego the basket and instead started pulling the ingredients into his arms – _lemon juice, sambal, chili paste_ …Once he had everything, he raced out the doors of the pantry – 

– and ran _smack_ into Zuko. 

The speed with which both men were hurtling toward each other sent them each flying painfully backwards. _Oh, so NOW he decides to hurry?_ Sokka thought exasperatedly. _Really, Zuko? REALLY?_ Sokka had just managed to hold onto most of the ingredients in his arms, but now he saw that one bottle of red pepper flakes had tumbled to the ground. 

Sokka fell instantly to his knees to reach out and grab the bottle, but it was like Zuko was his mirror image, because the other man knelt down just as quickly, and when Sokka grabbed the bottle, Zuko’s hand was already holding it. Which meant that now, Sokka’s hand was just holding…Zuko’s. 

Sokka’s head snapped up just as Zuko’s did. For a split second they shared a stare, and Sokka could tell by Zuko’s chili-colored complexion that he was equally uncomfortable with this turn of events. Then, seemingly realizing they were still _holding hands on television,_ both men simultaneously recoiled from the bottle between them. 

“…Sorry,” Zuko said, and he sounded like he really meant it. 

“It’s fine,” Sokka huffed as he reached out for the bottle. But Zuko’s hand was there _again,_ and Sokka’s landed smack down on top of it. 

“Um…” Zuko mumbled, growing redder by the second. 

“Oh, for God’s sake, give me that,” Sokka snapped. As he was yanking the bottle out of Zuko’s grasp, he heard a producer’s voice call out behind him, “ _Get in there! They’re about to fight!_ ” 

Zuko eyed Sokka with an odd sense of timidity, like he was afraid Sokka actually _was_ about to fight him, as if Sokka had the time to get into a brawl right now (or would even want to if he did!) Sokka shook his head and clamored back to his feet just in time to see a stampede of cameras barreling toward them. 

Through the crowd of cameramen, Sokka couldn’t see what happened next, but he could hear it. There was a loud _thunk_ followed by an anguished gasp and the clattering of a knife against a counter. Sokka turned in time to see Mai falling back from her workstation and clutching one hand in the other while spitting out a strained, “Oh _shit._ ” She brought her hand up to her face, and Sokka could see that it was dripping with blood. 

“ _We need a medic over here!_ ” Sokka yelled toward the producers. 

“I’m _fine,_ ” Mai snarled at him. She rushed back to her sink and began to run her hand under the water, using the other to pick her frying pan back up and continue flipping whatever was cooking in there. 

But the standby medic was already racing over. “I’m fine!” Mai repeated, waving him away. 

“Chef Mai, for our judges’ safety, you can’t be near the food if you’re injured,” the medic told her. “You know the rules.”

“I’m not _injured,_ it’s just a cut!” Mai snapped. By now the cameramen had forgotten about Sokka and Zuko and were crowding around her, zooming in on the still-bleeding hand. 

“Chef Mai. Step away from the workstation or you will be disqualified.” 

Mai glared at him, and for a moment everyone on set was frozen in place, wondering whether more than a few drops of blood were about to be spilled in the kitchen. But then Mai’s eyes darted toward the clock, and she sighed. With a flick of her wrist, she switched off her stove and then backed away from her work station with her hands in the air. “Stay _away_ from my food,” she barked at Sokka as she was led off set. 

Still a little shell-shocked, Sokka glanced over at Zuko, who was still on his knees from their little rendezvous on the floor. Zuko looked back at him with naked worry – _of course he'd be worried about his girlfriend,_ Sokka thought with unexpected annoyance – but then Zuko’s eyes snapped toward the pantry. 

The pantry. Right. Food! 

It was like a switch flipped in the kitchen. In the same instant, Sokka, Zuko, and Aang returned to their cooking with furious speed. Aang sprinted toward the refrigerator, Zuko disappeared into the pantry, and Sokka dumped the bottles he was holding down onto the counter and retrieved the fryer. Once he had the little appliance, he filled it up with oil and flicked it on to get it started on pre-heating. While he was waiting on that, he began to measure out ingredients for the sauce. He was so focused that he barely noticed Zuko running behind him with a basket full of – _wait, was that a tentacle? Nope, focus, focus…_

The next twenty minutes were a blur as Sokka flitted between his fryer and his oven, making sure to keep both temperatures just right. At some point Mai returned to her workstation, and then the kitchen was loud with sizzling and chopping as all four chefs entered the final third of the competition hour with renewed vigor. All the while, Piandao continued making the rounds, asking the chefs questions or sharing food facts with the camera crew. 

Before long the alarm on Sokka’s watch went off, which meant it was time to start frying. After checking the fryer temperature one more time, he rescued the chicken wings from their marinade bath and dunked them into the hot oil, starting a new timer as he did. While the oil bubbled around the meat, he retrieved the tray of fries from the oven and bit into one to taste it. _Hot, but good,_ he thought, panting through the scorching bite. 

It was about time to start plating, Sokka decided, and so he ran over to the rack of dishes on the far side of the kitchen. Aang was already there, picking out some sleek-looking bowls, and Mai was quick on Sokka’s heels, selecting a pile of long, flat plates. There was every fancy dish you could possibly imagine, and yet Sokka felt strongly that eating wings off of a plate was just plain _wrong._ He glanced around until he spotted them – a stack of metal baskets, lined with wax paper. _Perfect._

Sokka grabbed those and some matching metal cups for his sauce before bolting back to his workstation. He got to work arranging the fries appetizingly – _ooh, good pun, I need to remember that one_ – in the baskets and then spooned some sauce into the cups. By then the timer on his watch was just about up, so he hovered next to the fryer until he heard the beep and pulled out the basket of chicken wings. Then, another timer, just one minute this time, as he gave the chicken a break from frying and ran to the pantry for some chives. He had only just dropped them back on his cutting board when the timer beeped again. Chicken back in the fryer, watch set to three minutes, Sokka glanced back to the clock on the wall. 

Five minutes left. _Perfect._ All his prep had paid off. He had planned this recipe down to the minute, even scheduling some wiggle room for random little emergencies like the ones that had befallen him today. Now, everything was falling flawlessly into place. 

To Sokka’s left and right, Mai and Aang both looked like they were finishing up their cooking and beginning to plate their food. But on the other side of Mai, Zuko was…definitely _not_ doing that. He was running back and forth between a giant cooking pot and a food processor. Zuko didn’t seem to be finished with _any_ components of his dish, nor had he even begun his plating. Watching him made Sokka feel a little relieved. Even if something had gone wrong with his own dish – not that anything had, but _if_ – it looked like Zuko was struggling infinitely more over at his workstation. Sokka would have no difficulty besting him if it came to that. 

As the seconds ticked down, Sokka chopped up just enough of the chives to make them noticeable and decorative. The beep of his watch meant the chicken was ready, so he hastily removed the wings from the oil with a pair of tongs and distributed them into the baskets. 

“One minute, chefs, you have one minute,” Piandao was announcing as Sokka sprinkled on the chives over his chicken in one final flourish. Once that was done, he was well, done. Sokka exhaled and looked over at Aang, who met his eye with a triumphant smile as he stepped away from his own workstation. On the other side of Sokka, Mai was finished too, but she was about as far from smiling as a person could be. 

Sokka, Aang and Mai were all using the last minute to take some slow breaths, but Zuko was panting as he raced toward the plate selection with less than thirty seconds to go and then sprinted back to his workstation. 

“Twenty seconds,” Piandao said, walking with the crew over to Zuko, who was just now laying something long and black onto his dishes. 

“Ten…” Zuko was splashing on some sort of sauce next to his appetizers. Sokka’s blood pressure was going up just watching him. “Five…four…three…two…” 

Zuko plated the last of the sauce and jumped back, throwing his hands in the air. 

“…one.”

Even after all that, Zuko didn’t look phased. He looked…satisfied. 

“That’s it chefs – step away from your food! Round one is now complete!”

* * *

“Ladies and gentleman, can I get a round of applause for our competitors?”

The audience erupted with clapping and cheering. Sokka stood in a line with Mai, Aang and Zuko in front of the judges’ table, stone-still as they awaited their feedback. 

When the audience calmed down, Piandao went on, “Now, before we get to comments, I want to take a second to introduce our esteemed judges.” He stepped over to where they were sitting. “Please give a round of applause for…Chef Bumi!” 

“Thank you, thank you!” Bumi called out with a jewel-encrusted wave toward the audience. 

“Chef Jeong Jeong!” 

Jeong Jeong, too, flicked his hand dismissively at the attention. 

“Chef Pakku!” 

Pakku didn’t grace the audience with any reaction whatsoever. 

“The judges will now have the opportunity to taste the chef’s dishes. First up, Chef Aang!” 

The studio filled with applause for Aang, who stepped forward from the line with a grin and a little wave toward the audience. Crewmembers delivered one of Aang’s dishes to each judge. Sokka could see now that it was some sort of pink soup, topped with several multi-colored flowers. 

“Aang, please tell us what you’ve created.” 

“For my appetizer, I made cold rhubarb soup with strawberry extract, garnished with chamomile, hibiscus and rose,” Aang said proudly. 

“Your presentation is fantastic,” Bumi told him as he admired the bowl. 

“It is charming, although I never would have considered adding flowers to soup…” Pakku said skeptically. 

Jeong Jeong was the first to eat a spoonful. He nodded thoughtfully. “I’m with you, Pakku, but I think the flowers really complement the dish as a whole.” 

Pakku tried a bite himself. “I stand corrected. They really bring the soup together, don’t they?”

“Yes, this is incredibly refreshing,” Bumi agreed. “Well done, Aang. I’d eat a bowl of this before any meal.” 

“Thank you, Chef,” Aang said with a quick bow before stepping back into the line. 

The dishes were swapped out. “Chef Mai,” Piandao prompted. 

Mai stepped forward. Sokka could see now that her left hand was totally bandaged up – whatever happened to it was more than a just little cut. 

“I’ve prepared a sweet bruschetta with pheasant, strawberry, rhubarb and goat cheese,” Mai said, her tone cold and even. 

“Another beautifully presented dish,” Jeong Jeong pointed out as he looked over the long plate. On it, three small pieces of bread were stacked meticulously with the fruit-meat-cheese blend. No matter how it tasted, Sokka thought it looked totally mouth-watering. 

“Absolutely,” Bumi said. 

The three judges each took a bite and then fell into silence as they chewed thoughtfully. 

“There was a little issue with the pheasant, wasn’t there?” Pakku said, breaking the silence. 

From his angle, Sokka could just barely see Mai’s eyes narrow. “Yes, Chef.” 

“I can tell it’s just not cooked quite right,” Pakku went on. 

“I’ve had your pheasant before, Mai, I know you can cook it perfectly. What happened here?” Jeong Jeong asked, staring curiously at the dish. 

Mai opened her mouth to speak, but Pakku was already talking. “Well, it’s like I always say, a competition like this can be very overwhelming for a female – ”

“I think this is delicious, Mai,” Bumi said over the rest of Pakku’s sentence. “The meat may be just a little off, but the combination as a whole is just wonderful. And the rhubarb complements it all perfectly. I think you should be proud of this dish.”

Sokka couldn’t read Mai’s expression. He never could, really, but now it looked even more closed off than usual. “Yes, Chef,” she said stiffly, bowing and returning to the line.

“Chef Sokka.” 

Sokka stepped forward. “I don’t know about you guys, but when I think appetizers, I think wings,” he said. “So I cooked Chinese chicken wings with apple cider and rhubarb glaze, along with chili sauce and a side of fries. I hope you’ll find them… _appetizing._ ” 

The audience exploded in equal parts laughter and booing. 

“Did they forget the silverware?” Pakku asked.

“Oh, stop being so hoity-toity,” Bumi scolded him. “They’re wings, using a fork and knife would be downright disrespectful.”

One by one, the men dipped their wings in the sauce and took a bite. There was a moment of silence, and for just a heartbeat, Sokka was worried his feedback was going to go the way of Mai’s. But then Pakku met his eye. “Sokka, I do believe this is some of the finest chicken I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating.”

“Agreed,” Jeong Jeong said, going in for another bite. “It’s perfectly cooked. I can’t find a thing wrong with it.”

“Try the fries, boys,” said Bumi, who was already following his own advice. “They’re just as good.” 

“Thank you, Chef Sokka,” Pakku said seriously. “This is the caliber of dish I expect from someone in the running to be named best chef alive.”

Sokka let go of a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Thank you, Chef,” he said with a quick bow as he ducked back into the line. That had gone very, very well. It was nearly impossible to draw such a compliment from Pakku, and Sokka’s feedback seemed to be the best so far, so he figured he was in pretty good shape to advance from this round, at least. Katara and Hakoda were absolutely beaming at him from the audience; Sokka risked a tiny smile back at them before resuming the straight-faced stare that was required of him. 

“Chef Zuko.” 

Zuko stepped forward as his dish was delivered to the judges. Sokka couldn’t quite make out what Zuko’s appetizer was – something black and long, sitting small and delicate on a round plate. The presentation wasn’t at all reflective the last few seconds of scrambling it had taken to get the food onto the dish. 

“Chefs.” Zuko said it confidently, a little warmly, like the judges were just some friends he’d invited over for dinner. “I’ve prepared for you a skewer of poached octopus and rhubarb with a smoked paprika glaze. For the sauce, you can take your pick from my rhubarb romesco or the lemon aioli. Enjoy.” 

“I can honestly say I’ve never had octopus as an appetizer,” Bumi said. He held up the skewer and Sokka could finally see what Zuko had cooked. It was a _joke,_ Sokka realized, which was shocking coming from someone as humorless as Zuko. On the skewer, Zuko had lined up thick slices of octopus and rhubarb in turn, with the tip of the appendage rolling off the end of the stick. Zuko had arranged the deconstructed ingredients to look just like…well, like a tentacle. 

“Yes, a bit of an odd choice,” Pakku agreed. 

The three men took tentative bites from their skewers and were silent. Very, very silent. They were silent for so long that if Sokka were standing in Zuko’s spot, he would have started fidgeting with anxiety. But Zuko was calm and still. 

It was Jeong Jeong who broke the silence. “Chef Zuko…” he began, trailing off, like he was looking for the right words. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything like this before.” 

“This is, without a doubt, the best appetizer I have ever eaten,” Bumi said, less delicately. “This is a triumph, Chef Zuko.”

“Yes, it is” Jeong Jeong said. “I’m blown away. This is absolutely phenomenal.”

Pakku was nodding along with them. “I don’t think I’ll soon forget this dish. Thank you so much, Chef Zuko. In making this, you’ve accomplished something truly incredible.”

Zuko gave a tiny nod. He was wearing that cocky, self-satisfied smirk that made Sokka’s blood boil. This was just so goddamn _typical,_ wasn’t? Sokka had worked his ass off while Zuko had dicked around, acting like the whole competition was a _joke,_ barely scraping together a dish at the last minute, and the judges acted like it was some sort of goddamned gift from God. Skating by was the way of life for someone as privileged and perfect as Zuko. Sokka would never have that, and he hated Zuko for it. 

“Thank you, Chef,” Zuko said, taking a step back. 

“The judges will now deliberate,” Piandao announced to the audience. Jeong Jeong, Pakku and Bumi looked at each other and exchanged some whispered words followed by a few nods. Then Pakku murmured something to Piandao. 

Sokka suddenly felt breathless and itchy all over. His feedback had been good, but after hearing Zuko’s comments he no longer felt very safe. It seemed like anyone could be in the running to be sent home, except for Zuko.

“Thank you, judges,” Piandao said. He turned to the audience. “The judges have come to a decision. I will now announce the name of the chef who will not be returning for next month’s entre round.”

A hush fell over the studio. Piandao ate it up, savoring the heavy weight of the anticipatory silence. 

“And the chef who will not be advancing to the next round is…”

Sokka couldn’t breathe. He squeezed the nails of one hand tight into the other, forcing himself to stay present and not pass out on stage in front of the entire world. 

“…Chef Mai.” 

A chorus of sad _aw_ ’s arose from the audience. Piandao turned to Mai. “Chef Mai, thank you so much for – ”

“Whatever.” Mai brushed past the handshake that was offered to her and stalked away from the line of chefs. Zuko grabbed her arm lightly as she moved by him, but she yanked it away and stormed off the set.

Piandao coughed awkwardly before turning back to the audience. “Well, that’s all for tonight, folks. Please join us next month, when Chef Aang, Chef Sokka and Chef Zuko will show the judges their best entre and fight for a spot in the final round of _Best. Chef. Alive!_ ” 

The audience cheered. Someone’s voice behind the cameras yelled “ _CUT!_ ” and the put-together set dissolved into chaos as everyone in the room began to disperse simultaneously. 

Sokka made to go talk to Piandao, but Pakku intercepted him. “Well done, Chef Sokka,” he said, extending his hand. Sokka felt a little icky taking it after Pakku’s comments about Mai, but it probably wasn’t a good idea to get in a fight with one third of the decision-making body that would determine Sokka’s fate over the next few months. 

“Thank you, Chef,” Sokka said instead, shaking his hand. 

“I’m looking forward to the next time I get to taste your cooking.” 

Sokka laughed, and meant to say something else, but then he heard Aang’s voice calling his name. “ _Sokka!_ Get over here, you have to try this!”

Sokka turned and saw Aang and Zuko, standing by the far-off table where the judges’ half-eaten appetizers had been deposited after every wave of comments. Aang was holding one of Zuko’s stupid octopus skewers, the traitor. Zuko had a little smile on his face as Aang went on chattering to him animatedly. _Of course he’s smiling,_ Sokka thought bitterly. _The judges might as well have given him the title here and now._

But social convention and the crowds of people around them forced Sokka to obey Aang, and he joined the two chefs over by the discarded food. “Here,” Aang said, shoving another one of the skewers in Sokka’s face. “Eat this. It’s _so_ good, Sokka.” 

Zuko did _not_ need the ego boost Aang was giving him, but feeling the eyes of the two other chefs on him, Sokka had no choice but to reluctantly take the skewer from Aang. He looked it over, gave it a sniff, and then finally took a small bite out of the octopus. And it was…

_Oh._

_Oh. Okay._

It felt bad to think Zuko had beaten Sokka on the basis of his wealth, or his looks, or his charm, or his luck. But it felt much, much worse to think Zuko had beaten him simply because his dish was just _that_ much better than Sokka’s. 

Zuko’s eyes were wide, staring at Sokka expectantly, looking genuinely eager to hear what Sokka might think of his appetizer. Sokka used chewing and swallowing as an excuse to compose himself and keep himself from doing what he wanted to do, which was probably to throw the skewer on the ground and flip the table over and demand a rematch of their _Iron Chef America_ brawl. 

Sokka didn’t do any of that. Instead, he just told the truth. 

“It’s amazing,” he said flatly. “It’s perfect.” 

Despite his tone, Sokka’s words seem to strike something in Zuko. Sokka watched as the set of his eyes shifted almost imperceptibly, just a little wider, just a little more relaxed. There was the barest hint of a smile on his lips now, but it wasn’t the smug expression Sokka had learned to hate. It was a hint of some sort of actual, real happiness. 

“Can I try yours?” Zuko asked, his soft voice sounding almost shy.

Sokka stared at him. The last thing on earth he wanted was for Zuko to try his plate _now,_ when Zuko had just fed him _that._ It was flat out embarrassing. Sokka’s dish would be fodder for whatever jokes were exchanged between Zuko and Mai later tonight. But saying no would just make it weird. “…Sure,” he finally acquiesced. _Let’s just get this over with as soon as possible._

Zuko grabbed one of the wings and dipped it in Sokka’s sauce. It looked a little comical, seeing Zuko’s elegant hands clutching the greasy bar food without silverware. Zuko raised the chicken to his lips and took a tentative little bite. Just a second of chewing, and then Zuko’s eyes went wide. He pulled the chicken away and gave it a disbelieving look. 

_Oh, okay. So it’s just THAT much worse than your dish, is it?_

Zuko looked like he was struggling with his words. “Sokka,” he said finally, sounding almost a little choked. Wrapped up in _that_ voice, Sokka’s name sounded like some sort of exotic spice, like it was an ingredient Zuko had spotted on the shelf for the first time after years of searching. It gave Sokka goosebumps. “Sokka. This is…” 

He spluttered to silence. Sokka awaited the second half of the sentence, but instead Zuko took another bite. “It’s…” 

Zuko was struggling hopelessly to articulate his thoughts. It was obvious he was just trying to strike the right balance between politeness and honesty – Sokka had worn the same expression countless times over the years when aspiring young chefs vied for space on his menus. But Sokka didn’t quite have the patience right now to wait for Zuko’s bleak evaluation of his appetizer. 

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” Sokka said, turning away with a scowl. He started searching through the crowd for his family, or Piandao, or literally anyone else he could use as an excuse to book it. 

But a firm hand grabbed his forearm, trapping him in place. 

“Sokka,” Zuko said again. _Why_ did the way he said Sokka’s name make Sokka’s skin prickle? 

Sokka turned back to face him. It wasn’t like he had a choice, considering Zuko had his arm in a death grip. “What?” he snapped. 

Zuko eyebrows bunched up at Sokka’s tone. He was still frustratingly wordless. “I just…” he trailed off once again. “I’m. Looking forward to cooking with you again. Next month.” 

It didn’t sound like a mind game. It sounded genuine, which just made Sokka feel all the more suspicious. Zuko’s eyes were almost painfully earnest, and the place on Sokka’s arm where Zuko held him felt like was burning. Sokka’s mouth was dry – why did he feel so uncomfortable and so warm all at once?

“…Me too,” Sokka said finally. 

That made something click into place for Zuko, and he released Sokka’s arm with a remorseful look on his face. Even though he’d been freed, Sokka felt frozen in place, caught like an asteroid in Zuko’s orbit in the emptiness of space. 

“ _Sokka!_ ” Katara’s voice called out, shattering the bubble around them. Suddenly Sokka was dropped right back into the roaring crowd of the studio. He _wasn’t_ alone in the universe with Zuko; he was surrounded by hundreds of people, and it was a little disconcerting how easy it had been to forget about that. Sokka gave himself one more second to look at Zuko, wondering what it was behind those eyes that made Sokka’s insides feel like they’d been through a blender. One more second, and then he could return to his regularly scheduled “I hate Zuko” programming. 

“See you,” his mouth said without his permission. 

Zuko blinked. “See you,” he said, barely whispering the words. 

Katara was at his side then, and Sokka let her drag him away. He spared just one more glance at Zuko, whose golden eyes followed Sokka as he stood back, looking unmoored and alone. _See you,_ Sokka repeated to himself, unsure now how the thought made him feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read this so far!
> 
> **Edit:** a lot of people have commented concerning Aang trying Zuko's dish. Remember, Zuko's skewers were a mix of octopus and rhubarb, and Aang was only eating the rhubarb part, so rest assured he was not breaking from his vegetarian diet!


	4. Chapter 4

Cooking shows were fun, and the steakhouse was Sokka’s pride and joy, but cookbooks were his real bread and butter. He really could have churned out a new one every other week with the number of recipes he wrote, but he was inhibited by stupid constraints, like the limited amount of patience his editor had for his never-ending supply of ingredient puns or the unwavering principles of supply and demand. There wasn’t exactly a big market for a Harry Potter-style epic detailing the thousands of potential variations one could make to a standard tri-tip. 

Today, the day after the first episode of _Best Chef Alive_ aired on Food Network, Sokka was sitting in the waiting room of his publisher’s office. She wanted to get something together for publication for if ( _when,_ was how she phrased it) he won the competition so they could make a big promotional event out of it. The point of meeting up was to finalize some more big-picture aspects of the book and to make sure the recipe for his _Best Chef Alive_ appetizer was prominently featured. 

But Sokka had been sitting there for more than forty-five minutes now, waiting for her to deal with whatever emergency was going on at the other end of her phone line. Sokka had scrolled through every social media feed on his phone, _twice,_ and yet he was still in the same uncomfortable chair in the same empty, painfully minimalist lobby. Now there was nothing to do but stare at his locked screen and hope something would light it up. 

And, miraculously, something did. 

**@BlueSpiritCookbook is now following you!**

Sokka stared at the Twitter notification. New Twitter followers weren’t exactly a rarity for him – he was something of a public figure, after all – but the overwhelming force of sheer boredom made him click on the notification anyway. 

That brought him to @BlueSpiritCookbook’s Twitter profile. There was no banner, no bio, no name, and just an image of a little duckling as a profile picture. The account didn’t have very many followers, and no original content by the looks of it. Its feed was just endless retweets of recipes, cooking videos, and historical food facts. 

The profile was entirely unremarkable, and yet the handle caught Sokka’s eye. He knew of the Blue Spirit Cookbook, and it wasn’t exactly a New York Times bestseller. Despite its name, it was more of a lifestyle guide than a cookbook. It had been authored by a self-proclaimed “spiritual healer” whose recipes dived deep into the medicinal and meditative benefits of various vegan dishes. Sokka had read it – he’d read almost every cookbook in existence, truthfully – and although it wasn’t exactly his preferred diet, there were a lot of intriguing ideas in there about the relationship between body and mind. What was even more intriguing, though, was that someone had thought to use the title of such an obscure cookbook as their Twitter handle. 

Sokka glanced up at the door of his publisher’s office. It was still closed. 

_Oh, what the hell?_

He tapped the “Follow” button. What was one more food account on his Twitter feed? 

Sokka locked his phone again and tilted his head to stare up at the ceiling. He would really rather be at home practicing for Round Two right now. Or at the steakhouse, making sure everything was going okay. Or literally anywhere else on earth. What was taking her so long? 

Sokka’s phone buzzed. 

He looked down. It was a Twitter DM. Sokka opened it without thinking. 

**@BlueSpiritCookbook**  
_Hello. Thanks for following back. I just wanted to send you a message because I watched the Best Chef Alive premiere last night, and I want you to know that your appetizer was definitely the best one. If that was the finale, you would have won._

Ah, so @BlueSpiritCookbook was a fan. Sokka smiled a little at the message. He didn’t agree with it, not at all, but it was a sweet sentiment. He thought for a second and then typed out a response.

  


**@MeatAndSarcasm**  
_hey, thanks, i really appreciate that! it’s one of my fave recipes so i'm really glad you liked it_  
  
**@MeatAndSarcasm**  
_unfortunately i don’t think the judges agreed with you on that last part_  
  
**@MeatAndSarcasm**  
_they really liked zuko’s thing, which was totally fair. i got to try it after the shoot and it was awesome. he definitely “won” that round. but hey what can you do?_  
  


The response was almost immediate.  


**@BlueSpiritCookbook**  
_If the judges thought that, they were wrong._

**@BlueSpiritCookbook**  
_Your dish was better than anyone else’s, including Zuko’s._

**@MeatAndSarcasm**  
_i'm surprised you got that strong a read on it through the tv haha. especially because his presentation was so good. but seriously, thank you, it means a lot to hear that!_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook**  
 _You’re welcome._

Sokka locked his phone to check the time. It was now almost a whole hour past his scheduled appointment. He had absolutely nothing better to do; he might as well satisfy a little of his curiosity.

  


**@MeatAndSarcasm**  
_so………..are you a vegan, a hippie, or both?_

  


@BlueSpiritCookbook didn’t respond. Sokka wondered if he’d just made it weird, trying to have a real conversation with a fan who was just trying to pay him a compliment. _Oh well,_ he thought, putting his phone down and closing his eyes. Maybe a nap was in order?

About five minutes later, his phone buzzed again. 

**@BlueSpiritCookbook**  
_Neither. Why do you ask?_

_  
_

**@MeatAndSarcasm**  
_your username. the blue spirit cookbook_  
  
**@MeatAndSarcasm**  
_my understanding is those are the target audiences_  
  
**@MeatAndSarcasm**  
_it's all about feeding the “soul” right?_  


There was another long delay.

**@BlueSpiritCookbook**  
_Oh, I see._

**@BlueSpiritCookbook**  
_I’ve never actually read it. It was my uncle’s favorite cookbook when I was growing up. He always made me food from those recipes. He’s a spiritual person, so I guess it makes sense he would be into that sort of thing._

**@BlueSpiritCookbook**  
_When I was making the account, it was just the first thing that came to mind. I’ve never met another person who’s actually heard of the Blue Spirit Cookbook, though._

**@BlueSpiritCookbook**  
_I’m sorry for the confusion._

**@MeatAndSarcasm**  
_omg don’t apologize_  
  
**@MeatAndSarcasm**  
_that's super cool_  
  
**@MeatAndSarcasm**  
_ya i read a lot of cookbooks haha. kind of comes with the gig_  
  
**@MeatAndSarcasm**  
_i've never actually met another person who’s heard of it either, so the name kind of stood out to me_  
  
**@MeatAndSarcasm**  
_your uncle sounds like a cool guy_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook**  
_I read a lot of cookbooks too._

**@BlueSpiritCookbook**  
_And yeah, he is._

_Finally,_ June poked her head out of her office door. “Alright, Sokka, I’m ready for you. I’m sorry about all that.”

“No worries,” Sokka told her. All his grumpiness about the wait had inexplicably disappeared. “Let me just send a quick text.”

  


**@MeatAndSarcasm**  
_hey i gotta go now, but it was really nice talking to you!_ 😄 

  


“Alright, I’m all set.” Sokka stood and followed her into her office.

“It’s four already? Christ, it’s late. I’m _so_ sorry, this Ozai thing is just really kicking my ass right now.”

“…Ozai thing?” Sokka asked warily. Dear God, was the specter of Zuko going to follow him everywhere for the rest of his life? 

“You haven’t heard? It’s been all over the news. There’s a huge class-action lawsuit going on against Agni Kai right now. They’re saying he underpaid a bunch of his employees, or didn’t pay them at all, and then threatened to get them deported if they complained about it. Modern-day slavery, is what the media is calling it.” June rubbed her temples. “We signed one of the employees for a tell-all book deal, but now Ozai’s lawyers are threatening to sue us for defamation if we go ahead and publish. It’s a whole mess.” 

“Jesus.” That all tracked with what Sokka had heard about Ozai in the past – that he was private, litigious, and mercilessly cold-hearted – but it was still shocking to hear just how awful the guy actually was. Add that to the long list of reasons why Zuko was Bad NewsTM and why Sokka needed to take whatever weirdness had happened between them after the last round and shove it deep down into the recesses of his memory where he’d never have to look at it again. “That’s awful, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, it is – but let’s talk about you, _at least third best chef alive._ Congrats, man.” Sokka laughed, and June turned to her computer and clicked a few times. “I’ve been thinking a lot about titles. How do you feel about ‘ _High-Steaks Home Cooking’_?”

“Thanks, I hate it,” Sokka told her. He didn’t. He loved it. 

The meeting went on for more than an hour, so it wasn’t until that evening that Sokka unlocked his phone again to check his notifications. There was a text from Gran-Gran and a couple of emails, along with a Twitter DM. Sokka opened it up – it was a response to his hasty goodbye to @BlueSpiritCookbook from before. 

  


**@BlueSpiritCookbook**  
_It was nice talking to you, too. :)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Yes, it's a real thing!](https://www.amazon.com/Spirit-Cookbook-Sofia-Sforza-Protti/dp/0692981462)
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who's read and enjoyed this so far! I really appreciate all the love!


	5. Chapter 5

_beepbeepbeepbeepbeep  
  
_Sokka’s watch announced the end of the hour. He leapt back from the kitchen counter and threw his hands in the air, so no one could possibly claim he’d spent more than the allotted time on his dish.  
  
Not that anyone was there to call him on it. It was two weeks after the first round of _Best Chef Alive_ , and Sokka was all alone in his spacious home kitchen, tweaking and refining and perfecting his entre recipes in preparation for the next round. Today’s project was a tricky oven-braised veal stew with cherries. The past hour had been spent throwing the dish together under model competition conditions to make sure he’d be ready to do the same under the hot lights and omniscient cameras in a few weeks.  
  
Playing the role of judge now, Sokka examined at the result. The presentation was good, which was tough for a stew! He’d managed to get an approximately equal amount of veal and cherry in each of the three bowls, and the garnish of chopped parsley definitely made up for the otherwise umber monochrome of the dish.  
  
Sokka picked up a spoon and gave the stew a taste. This was his fifth try of the day so far, so he was really hoping he’d finally struck the right balance of seasoning this time. But as he swished a spoonful of broth around his mouth, he slouched with disappointment. There was still something _off_ about the combination. The tartness of the cherries was overpowering the dish in a way it wasn’t supposed to. He didn’t want to do away with the cherries – they were essential for other reasons – but he needed to find some way to temper their impact.  
  
With a frustrated sigh, Sokka decided a to take a break. Maybe something would come to him if he just let his brain rest for a few minutes.  
  
He wandered out of the kitchen into his living room and flopped onto his couch. Watching TV could kill enough brain cells to get him out of his head for a second, couldn’t it? Sokka switched it on with the remote. He wasn’t going to put on Food Network – _dear God no,_ he thought, cringing at the idea of potentially seeing himself on television. No, he needed something truly mindless, which was why he switched to E!.  
  
(Yeah, Sokka liked watching trashy gossip shows in his spare time. So sue him.)  
  
“ _…and in other news, Food Network has just named Chef Zuko the first ever Sexiest Chef Alive…_ ”  
  
“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” Sokka wanted to throw the remote at the TV. Even his favorite E!scapism couldn’t escape Zuko.  
  
“ _For those who don’t watch as many cooking shows as I do, Zuko is the son of Ozai, the owner of the Agni Kai franchise._ ” As the host spoke, a montage of semi-sexual pictures of Zuko flashed onto the screen. One with his kitchen smock unbuttoned in a way that would be very unsafe in a real kitchen; another with a heavy cast-iron pan swung over his shoulder, showing the way his biceps flexed at the weight. Of course, Zuko looked gorgeous as a model in all of them, with his perfect jawline and his muscled body and his infuriating little smirk. He probably _was_ the sexiest chef alive, Sokka thought, which just made him angrier. Money, skill, _and_ looks? _Pick one, MAYBE two max, and leave some for the rest of us.  
  
_“ _Zuko is heavily involved in the business side of Agni Kai and is expected to take over the company one day. He’s also appeared on dozens of cooking shows, and most recently he advanced to round two of Food Network’s newest series, Best Chef Alive_.”  
  
“ _He could get to round two with me any day of the week, if you know what I mean!_ ”  
  
“ _Oh, I know exactly what you mean, Melanie. Just look at that scar! You just don’t see men like that every day._ ”  
  
“ _Do you have any idea how he got it?_ ”  
  
“ _I don’t think it’s ever been confirmed. A few years back there was a rumor floating around that he got it from a stovetop flame when he was a kid, but I don’t really believe it. I mean, look at the size of that thing! No kid would hold his own face against a fire for that long._ ”  
  
“ _Well, whatever it was, I’m sure it was an accident_ – ”  
  
Sokka switched off the TV. This was decidedly _not_ helping him get his mind off his cooking.  
  
He opened his phone to search for some other source of entertainment. He had a snapchat from Katara, which he clicked open. It was a full-body mirror selfie; Katara was wearing a form-fitting blue dress and a pair of heels. _How do I look?_ read the caption. Sokka swiped up.  
  
  
  
  
**MeatAndSarcasm  
**speaking as the most fashionable person you know, you look fantastic  
speaking as your brother, you look ok.  
what's the occasion???  
date??????????? 👀👀👀  
  
  
  
  
As he sent the last message, he got another notification. It was a Twitter DM from @BlueSpiritCookbook.  
  
Sokka had all but forgotten their conversation from before, but now he remembered the little duckling profile picture and the coincidental cookbook knowledge. The person had seemed nice, if a little awkward. He tapped the notification.  
  
  
  
  
**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_I made your honey-balsamic salmon recipe.  
  
  
  
  
_Sokka raised an eyebrow. That recipe was an old one, published five or six years ago in his third ever cookbook. That meant @BlueSpiritCookbook wasn’t just a fan – they were a _big_ fan. But Sokka couldn’t blame them – the salmon recipe was one of his absolute favorites.  
  
  
  
  
**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_📎_ _Attachment  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_What do you think?  
  
  
  
  
_The second message had a picture attached, and Sokka clicked it open, intrigued. It depicted two cuts of salmon, plated beautifully on a white dish with a side of brussels sprouts. The salmon looked absolutely delicious, but…  
  
Sokka zoomed in a little bit. The meat’s complexion was a little more orange than pink, with slightly less char than his salmon typically came out with. He’d refined this recipe enough that he knew exactly what the end result was supposed to look like, and it wasn’t that.  
  
Sokka stared at it for a few seconds longer before typing a response.  
  
  
  
  


**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _that looks amazing!  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _it’s a little different from how i normally make it – did you change the recipe?_

  
  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook didn’t respond right away. Sokka scrolled through the rest of his notifications. There was a snapchat from Aang; Sokka opened and saw Aang posed for a selfie in his usual cooking smock, flashing a thumbs up at the camera. He’d captioned the selfie, _How do I look?  
  
  
  
  
_**MeatAndSarcasm  
**you look fine  
why does everyone keep asking me that??  
  
  
  
  
Sokka locked his phone and then stared at the blank TV screen accusatorily. His beloved, brainless reality television hadn’t helped get him out of his head – all it did was make him want to prove once and for all that he really was better than Zuko.  
  
That was enough to force him to let out a sigh and get up off the couch. He wandered back into the kitchen and began to clean up the mess he’d made of his workspace. Five attempts weren’t enough to perfect this dish, so he’d try a sixth time, and seventh, and however many it took until he plated something that would knock Zuko clean out of the water the next time they faced off.  
  
Sokka was just dumping out the subpar stew when his phone buzzed again.  
  
  
  
  
**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_Yeah, I did.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_Instead of pan-frying it the whole time, I roasted it in the oven first and just did a quick sear at the end.  
_  
  
  
  
Huh. That would explain the odd coloring, for sure. Sokka had used the hybrid roast-sear method before, but this particular recipe was intended to be pan-fried only. He shot off a quick response.  
  
  
  


**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _what, my way wasn’t good enough for you? i'm hurt!_

  
  
  
Sokka meant it as a joke, but the answer appeared before he even had a chance to lock his phone.  
  
  
  
  
**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_No!  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_Your recipe is incredible. I’ve made it that way before. It always turns out great.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_But I was working under time constraints and I didn’t have time to babysit the salmon on the stove. So I had to adapt the recipe a little bit.  
  
_

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _oh i see. that makes total sense!  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i guess i'm just not usually one to switch up a recipe  
_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Never? Not even when it’s necessary?_

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _well  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _not NEVER_ _  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i just think if a recipe doesn’t fit the circumstances, you should probably pick a different recipe_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Huh.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Don’t you feel like you’re limiting yourself if you cook like that?_

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _not at all!_

Sokka tapped his chin thoughtfully. How to explain?

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _look, cooking is a lot like chemistry, right?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _it's logical. it's predictable. and you have to be precise or it will blow up in your face  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _and you’d never just start throwing random chemicals together. generations of chemists before you have figured out the best way to combine things. it doesn’t make sense to just disregard that and do it your own way  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _the best strategy is to follow the recipe. so that’s what i do  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _and that’s why i love cooking – because it’s all about rules and order._

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_Why do you say that?  
  
  
  
  
_Sokka stared at the question. How should he respond to that? There was an obvious answer, but he hadn’t anticipated that pouring his heart out to a stranger on the internet would be a part of his night. Besides, @BlueSpiritCookbook probably didn’t want to hear all the sad details of Sokka’s psychologically damaging childhood. He decided to keep it vague.  
  
  
  


**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _let's just say, something pretty traumatic happened to me when i was a kid  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _it was, without a doubt, the hardest time of my life  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _and i remember i just felt so powerless  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _like i had no control over anything that happened to me  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _like the world was slipping out from under me  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _but anyway, that’s when i started cooking  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _and i loved it because it felt like the one place in the world where everything made sense  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _as long as i followed all the rules, i could control the outcome  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _so i started spending all my time working on becoming a better cook  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _and, well, you know the rest_

  
  
  
  
Sokka reread his messages for a second before sending a follow-up “ _haha_ ” to bring back a sense of levity to the conversation. Jesus, why did he decide to bring this up? And why did he ramble on for so long? Surely all it did was make @BlueSpiritCookbook uncomfortable. Sokka stared at the chat, embarrassment growing as time stretched on with no response. Finally…  
  
  
  
  
**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_Huh. That’s interesting.  
  
  
  
  
_Sokka stared at the message. Interesting? Was that the person’s polite way of saying they really didn’t care? Or was there something actually interesting about what he’d said? Normally Sokka would have stopped replying at this point – he’d embarrassed himself enough tonight – but something made him probe further.  
  
  
  
  


**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _what do you mean?_

  
  
  
  
He was leaned over the counter now and no longer making any effort to clean up his mess. It took about a minute, but then…  
  
  
  
  
**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_I love cooking, for the opposite reason._

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _really?_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_Yeah.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_My childhood was also…not the best.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_An excess of rules and order was a big part of that.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_I didn’t have a lot of freedom to do what I wanted. I still don’t.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_But the kitchen was the one place where I was free to do things totally my way.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_You said cooking is about precision. But I don’t cook to be precise, or to replicate what chefs before me have already made.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_I cook because it’s the one thing I have that’s totally mine.  
  
  
  
  
_Sokka’s eyes widened as the messages continued to pop up. @BlueSpiritCookbook hadn’t been scared away by his oversharing; the person was actually commiserating with him. Sokka didn’t often talk about that time in his life, so opening up about it now made him feel oddly vulnerable. And now, this random Twitter user was opening up with just as much vulnerability.  
  
  
  


**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _wow. i've never thought of it like that before  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _that makes a lot of sense_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Yeah. So.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I hope that wasn’t weird to say._

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _not at all!  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i'm sorry i gave you a hard time about the recipe earlier  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i'm flattered that you thought it was worth using at all_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_Of course it was worth using.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_Just because I’m not a huge fan of recipes doesn’t mean I can’t recognize when a recipe is good.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_And yours are some of the best.  
  
  
  
  
_Sokka was blushing. Why was he blushing? He knew his recipes were some of the best. Still, hearing it from this person stuck a chord deep inside him.  
  
  
  
  


**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _wow, thank you so much  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _that seriously means so much to me_

@BlueSpiritCookbook didn’t respond. Maybe that meant the conversation was over? After a few minutes had passed with no answer, Sokka turned back to the pile of ingredients on his island. He still had to figure out this _cherry_ problem. He wandered into his walk-in pantry and started scanning the shelves, hoping something would stand out and inspire him.  
  
He was still standing there when his phone buzzed again.  
  
  
  
  
**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_What are you up to right now?  
  
  
  
  
_Sokka raised an eyebrow. It was rare for fans to be this persistent. It was even rarer for Sokka to engage this much, and yet he typed out a reply almost automatically.  
  
  
  
  


**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _practicing one of my dishes for bca!_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Oh, I see. What are you working on?_

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
**_it's supposed to be an_ _oven-braised veal stew with cherries  
  
_**@MeatAndSarcasm  
**_but i'm still working out the kinks_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_That sounds delicious.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_What are your kinks?  
  
  
  
  
_Sokka giggled out loud at the phrasing. Normally he would be hesitant to discuss his competition prep – you never knew who could get ahold of that information or what they would do with it – but for whatever reason he wasn’t experiencing those same reservations now.  
  
  
  


**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _hey now, that’s a pretty personal question!_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Ha ha. Sorry. Poor phrasing._

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _nah i'm just messing with you  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _it's the cherries  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _they're basically taking over the whole dish_ _  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i can’t figure out how to keep the sour to a minimum_

  
  
  
Who knew? Maybe that duckling profile picture was hiding a wealth of cooking knowledge, including the key to saving this dish. It didn’t hurt to cast a wide net, right?   
  
But Sokka was still pleasantly surprised when he got an answer right away.  
  
  
  
  
**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_I’ve had that problem before, actually.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_I know it sounds odd, but try using more pepper.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_The spice helps counteract the tart flavor.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_That should solve your problem.  
  
  
  
  
_Sokka squinted at the message. Cherries and pepper? It wasn’t a combination he’d ever tried before, or even one he’d read about in his studies. But at this point he was willing to try anything.  
  
  
  


**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _cherries and pepper, huh?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i'll give it a try. thanks!_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _You’re welcome.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I hope that helps you get rid of your kinks. :)_

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _hahahaha idk, i've got quite a few, and i don’t think they’re going away that easy_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_Completely understandable.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_Then I hope it helps you cut down on the number of kinks you have.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_Or at least, the cooking-related ones.  
  
  
  
  
_Sokka was grinning from ear to ear. Were they…flirting? Was this flirting? Because if so, Sokka was kind of digging it. @BlueSpiritCookbook was funny and apparently very knowledgeable about cooking, which were two qualities Sokka valued above almost all else in a partner.  
  
The smile fell as he had a horrifying thought.  
  
  
  


**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _hey, um  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _you're not like a ten-year-old girl, are you?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i just experienced one (1) thought and realized i probably shouldn’t be making sex jokes to anonymous strangers on twitter_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I’m eleven, actually._

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
**😰

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Kidding.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I’m neither a ten-year-old nor a girl.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I’m twenty-eight. And a man._

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
**_hey, me too!_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I know._

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
**_oh, right…  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
**_it’s not really fair. you know everything about me and i don’t know anything about you_

  
  
  
  
Sokka was midway through typing out another joke when @BlueSpiritCookbook messaged him again.  
  
  
  
  
**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_I’m sorry, I have to go. I’m getting pulled into an emergency meeting.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_Good luck with your dish.  
  
  
  
  
_Damn. Right when Sokka was just starting to get interested, too. Hopefully there really was a meeting, and it wasn’t this guy’s way of letting him down easy or saying he wasn’t interested in talking anymore. Not that Sokka was necessarily wishing an emergency on him, but…  
  
  
  


**@MeatAndSarcasm  
**_oh, okay. thanks for all your help today!  
  
_**@MeatAndSarcasm  
**_i'm gonna message you next time i hit a wall_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Okay. I’d like that. :)_

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
**_me too!_

  
  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook didn’t respond, so Sokka assumed whatever this emergency meeting was had commenced. With a sigh, he realized it was probably time to stop procrastinating and get back to work.  
  
Once he’d cleaned everything up, he set a timer and did the whole dish all over again, this time using generous amounts of pepper in the broth along with the cherries. The resulting smell was much more pleasant than he anticipated, so when the hour was up and the dish was complete, he skipped judging his own presentation and went straight to the taste-test. He raised a steaming spoonful to his lips, and…  
  
_Damn_. Yeah, it was perfect.  
  
_Random Twitter user, if I win a million bucks, you’re definitely getting a cut_.

* * *

“ _CUT!_ ”  
  
A deafening bell rang out, and suddenly the kitchen set was packed with staffers scrambling about, resetting the ingredients and cleaning up the mess Sokka and Ty Lee had made of the counter.  
  
Amid all the bustling, Sokka turned to her with a grin. “How’d I do?”  
  
“You were absolutely fantastic, as usual!” Ty Lee beamed. Although he’d never admit it to her and risk boosting her already sky-high self-confidence, Ty Lee was one of Sokka’s favorite chefs in the Food Network ensemble. Sure, she was technically a part of the same rich-kid crew as Zuko and Mai, but her sweet demeanor was so totally opposite their dour attitudes that Sokka could forgive her for that association. Unlike Sokka, Ty Lee had her own show, and their great chemistry meant that Sokka had now booked around half a dozen guest appearances with her.  
  
“Chef Sokka, Chef Ty Lee, let’s get you guys to hair and makeup,” a producer said as she cut between them. Ty Lee shot him an apologetic shrug and allowed herself to be carted off to her makeup artists’ station. Another staffer grabbed Sokka by the arm and dragged him away to the guest vanity.  
  
H&M was always a quick process for Sokka, and even more so when he’d already been made up an hour ago before the first shoot. One woman redid his ponytail while a man caked on a bit more foundation on the sweatier parts of Sokka’s face, and that was really it. Now all he had to do was wait for the crew to finish up with Ty Lee, which would be a much longer process. It was always this way with female co-hosts on the network, and although Sokka was fully aware he was not the one who should be complaining about the double standard, it still sucked that he always had to spend around half an hour waiting for an army of makeup artists to perfect the appearance of an already objectively perfect face.  
  
To pass the time, Sokka scrolled idly through his Twitter feed. It was all the usual content: politics, gossip, memes, and _lots_ of food. He wasn’t paying too close attention, mostly just mechanically scrolling, but one post caught his eye.  
  
_Support restaurants that guarantee fair wages for workers_ , the tweet demanded. It was accompanied by a screenshot of a list of purportedly well-paying franchises to support. The image and its caption had been retweeted by @BlueSpiritCookbook.  
  
Sokka stopped scrolling once he saw the name. A few times that week, he’d thought back to his conversations with @BlueSpiritCookbook – or just the Blue Spirit, as Sokka was coming to think of him. Sokka was curious, more than anything, about the mystery cook hiding behind the duckling profile picture (who he assumed was not actually a duckling pulling off some Ratatouille-like scam, but one could never know for sure). Whoever it was, it was nice to talk to someone who was on the same page as Sokka when it came to the real nitty-gritty details of cooking. And it was nice to talk to him, period, Sokka realized. It was easy. It made him smile.   
  
For about the dozenth time that week, Sokka reopened their conversation. The Blue Spirit had never responded to his last message, nor had he initiated another conversation. Sokka wondered if it would be odd to be the one to reach out, considering he was the celebrity among the two, and the Blue Spirit was the one who had messaged him first during both of the previous conversations. But on the other hand, maybe that was why the Blue Spirit hadn’t reached out – did he feel like the ball was in Sokka’s court? Was he waiting for Sokka to show some interest?  
  
And why was Sokka so stressed out about sending a message to someone he didn’t even know?  
  
He shook himself. This was stupid. If he wanted to send a message, he should just go for it. Without thinking, he typed and hit _send_ on the most innocuous message he could manage and then locked his phone.  
  
  
  


**@MeatAndSarcasm  
**_hey! what are you up to today?_

  
  
  
He didn’t want to simply stare at his dark phone screen while he anxiously awaited a response, so he set it face down on the vanity and set off to find a snack (unsurprisingly, not a hard mission to accomplish on the set of a kitchen). Ten minutes later, after he felt like he’d spent sufficient time chatting with staffers and bothering Ty Lee with a few puns (which made her giggle wildly in response, to the dismay of the woman touching up her eyeliner), Sokka felt like he could justify checking his phone again. With a simultaneous sigh of relief and uptick in his heart rate, he saw he had not just one reply, but two.  
  
  
  
  
**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_This might come as a surprise, but I’m cooking.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_What about you?_

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
**_shooting an episode for the network  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
**_hair + makeup is taking forever_ 🙄

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Oh.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _It takes that long to make you look presentable?_

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
**_RUDE!!!!!  
  
_**@MeatAndSarcasm  
**_the opposite actually!!!!!!!!!!  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
**_i'm so attractive that it only took a second  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
**_so now i'm just waiting on everyone else_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Uh huh._

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _what are you cooking?_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_📎_ _Attachment  
  
  
  
  
_Sokka tapped the attachment, which was an image of a flour-covered kitchen counter. In its center was a row of uncooked dumplings. Next to them, some flat disks of dough and balls of meat waiting to be folded together.  
  
  
  


**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _oh shit. xiaolongbao???  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _those look amazing  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _your pleating is incredible  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _what kind of filling?_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Pork, crab, and roe. Among other things.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _My own recipe. :)_

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _wow. that sounds delicious_

  
  
  
  
Sokka reopened the picture and zoomed in on the dumplings, on their peaks, where the edges of the circular pieces of dough were twisted together like the tip of an ice cream cone. Cooking with that kind of dough was pretty difficult; it took tons of practice to learn how to consistently work with the flattened dough without breaking its thin walls, and even more practice to master the delicate folds of the xiaolongbao shape. But the Blue Spirit’s dumplings showed a near-perfect neatness and uniformity. They were clearly the work of some very skilled hands.  
  
Sokka bit his lip and hesitated a second before asking the question he’d been wanting to ask all week.  
  
  
  


**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _so you cook a lot, and you’re obviously really good at it  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _are you a professional chef?_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _No, I’m not._

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _seriously? just an amateur cook?_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I guess you could say that._

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _haven’t you ever thought about doing it for a living?_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Of course I have.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I’ve always wanted to be a professional chef._

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _but???_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _But I can’t._

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _???????????  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _why do you say that???  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _you’re really talented. and i don’t say that to just anyone  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _you could break into the industry for sure_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Thanks.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _That’s not the issue, though._

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _then what is it?_

  
  
  
This time, a few minutes went by without a response. Sokka wondered if he’d over-stepped. Was that too personal a question?  
  
Eventually, though, an answer did appear.  
  
  
  
  
**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_I have a job already.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_I work for the family business.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_So, I can’t just quit and chase after some silly fantasy._

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _dude  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _it’s not silly_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Maybe not to you.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _But to them it is._

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _you’re really that essential?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _they can’t just replace you with someone else?_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Unfortunately, no. They can’t._

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
**😕  
  
**@MeatAndSarcasm  
**_that’s really stupid._

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _It’s fine.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Honestly, I shouldn’t be complaining.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I’m lucky to have a job at all._

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _sure, but…  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _not the job you actually want  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _that’s super shitty  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _you deserve better._

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_Seriously, it’s fine.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_I feel bad for bringing it up. It’s really not that big of a deal.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_As you’ve already noticed, I cook a lot in my free time to make up for it.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_So, I’m fine.  
  
  
  
  
_Sokka thought the Blue Spirit was protesting a little too much. He could recognize backpedaling when he saw it, but he decided not to push it and make the guy more uncomfortable.  
  
Still, what a shitty situation. Sokka had been extremely lucky in that his family had always been supportive of his aspirations, even when it was not at all clear that he’d ever make a cent off his cooking. He couldn’t imagine what it would have been like going through that without Dad and Katara cheering him on, and he _definitely_ couldn’t imagine a life where he wasn’t allowed to be a chef at all.  
  
The fact that this guy wasn’t able to live his dream? It bothered Sokka. A lot. More than it should have bothered him, in all honesty. He didn’t know this person at all, and yet he felt genuinely mournful that those perfectly pleated dumplings would never make it outside of that kitchen.  
  
Sokka stared at the last message the Blue Spirit had sent: _I’m fine_. Maybe that was true and maybe it wasn’t, but he clearly wanted to let this go. Sokka could do that too. He just had to say something first.  
  
“Okay,” he said out loud as he typed out the long response, editing it a few times before deciding it was good enough to hit send.  
  
  
  


**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _well, i'm glad that you’re still able to cook in your free time. that's something at least! but don’t write your dreams off completely. you're your own person, and at the end of the day you should do what makes you happy, no matter what your family thinks. you deserve that. not to mention, the world deserves to taste your cooking! so if you ever change your mind and decide to pursue this, hit me up. i'll do whatever i can to help._

  
  
  
After sending the DM, Sokka tapped his screen anxiously with his nails. A message like that deserved a heart, he thought, so he opened up the emoji keyboard to pick one out.  
  
But there were so many _options_ …  
  
There was the classic red, of course. Plain, simple, and undoubtedly the most genuinely loving of them all. There were also the assorted pink hearts, which were all a little more playful, the kind of thing Katara might send to him, not well-suited for the seriousness of the discussion. Then there were the various plain, non-red hearts. Sokka was technologically literate enough to know that all those hearts screamed one thing: _friend_.  
  
Which was what they were.  
  
And yet, Sokka’s thumb hesitated over the blue heart.  
  
He couldn’t push away the odd feeling that it would send more of a statement than he intended – that he would somehow be locking in their relationship as just _friends.  
  
_That thought lead to another – that maybe, he didn’t want to lock in their relationship as just friends?  
  
“ _There_ you are!”  
  
It was Ty Lee’s voice, and then it was her hand landing on his shoulder and nearly startling him straight out of his seat. “We’re about to get started again.”  
  
“Great!” Sokka said quickly. “I’ll be there in a sec. Let me just – um, restaurant stuff,” he said, gesturing vaguely at his phone.  
  
“Okay!” she chirped. “I’ll let them know.”  
  
She disappeared back into the crowd, and Sokka turned back to his phone with a sigh. He was being a total idiot right now. What was he, some fifteen-year-old figuring out what to text his crush? As usual, he was totally overthinking the situation.  
  
Sokka went with his gut. Red heart. It was genuine, but vague enough that it left open any other… _possibilities_ that might arise.  
  
He tapped the heart and hit send before he could second-guess himself again.  
  
  
  


**@MeatAndSarcasm  
**❤️

  
  
  


Sokka nodded to himself. Okay. He’d done it.  
  
He went to lock his phone and head back into the set for the shoot, but an answer came no more than a second later.  
  
  
  
  
**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**❤️  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOHOO! I'm so happy to finally be posting this chapter. Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who has been reading and commenting so far, I'm so happy there are people out there who love this niche AU as much as I do. 
> 
> I am currently soliciting comments on READABILITY. Since the Twitter DM's are going to continue to be a major plot point, do you like the formatting? Is it too hard to read or just right? If enough people are bothered by it, I'll go back and make some changes so they're easier on the eyes. 
> 
> Next chapter is Round 2. Get hyped :)


	6. Chapter 6

**@MeatAndSarcasm**  
 _heading into round 2 now! wish me luck!_ 😄

  
  
Sokka grinned at his screen for a few more seconds before locking his phone and sliding it into his pocket. These past few weeks, he’d been messaging the Blue Spirit almost nonstop about pretty much every subject under the sun, and every blue bubble exchanged between them seemed to make him smile just a little wider. Sokka was starting to get pretty attached to the guy’s deadpan, grammatically-correct sense of humor, not to mention the seemingly endless supply of cooking knowledge that lived in his brain. It made Sokka feel a little electrified to think that in this very moment, the Blue Spirit was sitting at home ( _or maybe even here in the audience_ , Sokka thought hopefully), ready to cheer him on.  
  
This time, when Sokka arrived at the studio for the shoot, Aang and Zuko had both beat him there. Sokka wandered into the green room with his heavy satchel of recipe binders and found the two together, already made-up and dressed in their competition smocks, laughing about something that was apparently really, _really_ funny.  
  
Mid-laugh, Zuko caught his eye over Aang’s shoulder.  
  
“Sokka,” he said, and the warmth, the absolute _joy_ packed into the word made Sokka come to an astonished halt. Zuko was wearing a smile unlike any Sokka had seen on him before. It wasn’t the cocky smirk he put on for the cameras, or the self-conscious smile he’d given Sokka after the appetizer round. He looked totally uninhibited; it might have been the first real smile Sokka had ever seen on Zuko’s face. That, paired with his stage makeup (which made most faces look gaudy but made his look positively statuesque), made Sokka feel a little disarmed. _This is the smile they should have used for the Sexiest Chef Alive photoshoot_ , the disobedient part of Sokka’s brain thought, and he wanted to slap himself.  
  
“…Hey,” Sokka responded finally, shooting Zuko a surprised look. What had brought on this sudden change in attitude? Was Zuko really feeling that confident about this round? Or was his new title boosting his ego? Happy was definitely not a side of Zuko he’d seen before – at least, not directed at Sokka.  
  
To Sokka’s dismay, Zuko’s entire posture instantly shifted. His shoulders stiffened and the inexplicable smile fell from his face, replaced with a tensely neutral expression. He stood abruptly from his seat.  
  
“I need to go check on my workstation,” he said quickly, and then he dashed out of the room before Sokka could say another word.  
  
“Oookay…” Sokka said, although Zuko was no longer there to hear him. He set down his bag on an unclaimed vanity. “What was that about?” he asked Aang.  
  
“What was what about?”  
  
“Um, the fact that he just bolted the second he saw me?” Sokka said. “He went from human to robot in two seconds flat.”  
  
Aang shrugged. “He had to go check on his workstation,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.  
  
Sokka cast Aang a disbelieving look, but he let it go. “And what were you doing, huh? Fraternizing with the…him?”  
  
Aang raised an eyebrow, amused. “Were you going to say ‘enemy’?”  
  
“Maybe!”  
  
“Sokka,” Aang said patiently, with the tone of voice he always used when he was about to remind you he was raised by monks in a monastery. “Zuko’s not the enemy. He’s actually a really nice guy. You need to let go of all this animosity you have toward him.”  
  
“That’s easy for you to say,” Sokka huffed as he took a seat. “You haven’t been pitted against him for practically your whole career. We’re like the fucking Montagues and Capulets over here.”  
  
“You know Romeo and Juliet end up, like, _together_ in the end, right?”  
  
“Yeah, but then they end up dead!” Sokka pointed out. “The story clearly demonstrates the dangers of befriending your rivals.”  
  
Aang rolled his eyes. “Any objections that aren’t based in Shakespeare?”  
  
“Um, yes,” Sokka said. “Have you seen all this shit with Ozai? That family is complicit in some terrible, terrible stuff. How can I make nice with someone who supports all that?”  
  
“Well, that’s not really fair. Zuko is his own person, he’s not his father.”  
  
Sokka knew that, of course, but in this instance the apple didn’t seem to fall far from the tree. “Sure, but he works for Agni Kai. He benefits from all of that.”  
  
“But you don’t actually know that, because you don’t talk to him.” Aang was maintaining an annoying aura of calm throughout this discussion. “Just give him a chance. I think you’ll be surprised!”  
  
Sokka gave him a long look. Aang was really set on this, huh?  
  
“For you…I’ll consider it.”  
  
“Good!”  
  
Sokka unpacked his binders onto the vanity. He flipped open Binder #1 to a random page – ground turkey puttanesca – and closed his eyes to start reciting the ingredients. _Sixteen ounces of rigatoni, one pound of ground turkey, six ounces of tomato paste, ¼ cup of tarragon_ …  
  
“I found you!”  
  
Sokka looked up and saw Katara heading toward them with a giant grin. “Hey, you!” he said.  
  
Katara’s eyes landed on him. Instead of continuing to smile, her face froze and her cheeks went bright red. “Oh, hey, Sokka,” she said awkwardly. “I, uh, didn’t see you there.”  
  
Sokka squinted at her, but Katara recovered so quickly he wondered if he might have imagined her weirdness. “How are you feeling?” she asked, coming up behind him and leaning over to peer at what he was reading.  
  
“Pretty good,” Sokka said honestly. “Less nervous than last time. I know what to expect this time around, you know?”  
  
Katara hummed. “That makes sense,” she said. “You’re gonna do great. I know it.”  
  
“Hey, you’re just saying that ‘cause you want me to spend my millions on you!”  
  
Katara jabbed him with her shoulder before straightening. “Million. Singular. And we both know I don’t have to flatter you to get my share. Who else are you going to spend it on? Gran-Gran?”  
  
“I’ll have you know I have _plenty_ of people in my life I could spend that money on,” Sokka insisted.  
  
(He didn’t really – he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been on a date – but Katara didn’t need to know that.)  
  
“Uh huh,” Katara said sarcastically. She turned away from Sokka toward Aang, who’d been fiddling with his smock as they’d talked.  
  
“Hey,” she said.  
  
“Hi.” Aang was biting his lip and turning positively scarlet.  
  
“I just wanted to catch you before the shoot and tell you…” Katara trailed off and glanced toward Sokka. He was trying his best to focus on studying, or literally _anything_ besides his sister’s sudden awkwardness, but Jesus, she was making it hard. “Um, good luck,” she finally finished.  
  
If Aang was expecting her to say anything more meaningful, he didn’t show it. “Thanks, Katara,” he said, as grateful as if she’d just given him the secret recipe to winning it all.  
  
“I thought all your luck was reserved for me,” Sokka couldn’t resist injecting. “You’re rooting for him now?”  
  
Katara broke her tender eye contact with Aang to make sure Sokka could see her roll her eyes. “You’re insufferable sometimes, you know that?”  
  
She looked back at Aang. “I’m gonna go get a seat. But, um…I’ll be cheering you on.”  
  
“I’ll look for you,” Aang said quickly.  
  
“Okay! Good. Well…” She looked at Sokka again. “Um. Bye.”  
  
“Bye.”  
  
Aang watched Katara go as she scurried back out to the audience seating.  
  
“Okay, you better let me win now that you’ve stolen my sister,” Sokka told him.  
  
Aang stared off into the distance for a few more seconds, but then he shook himself and turned back to Sokka. “What?” he asked.  
  
“Oh my god. Nothing,” Sokka said, turning back to his binder. “And I’m the insufferable one here?” he grumbled for only his recipes to hear.  
  
Eventually hair and makeup tracked down Sokka and got him camera-ready while he tried to put in just a few minutes of studying. You never knew – that last read-through could make all the difference! Before long, the sound of a bell reverberated throughout the studio, and it was time to gather on the competition stage again. Sokka followed Aang out, and they stepped into the bright lights to see the audience packed with viewers and Zuko already positioned in front of the judges’ table.  
  
Sokka suddenly remembered that Zuko had never returned from his trip to “check on his workstation.” Zuko made brief eye contact with him now, and his eyes widened just a hair before he snapped his gaze away and began to concentrate very hard on something else.  
  
 _What is his problem?_ Sokka thought. Zuko had been so hot and cold with him lately it was giving him whiplash. It’s not like he wanted to be best friends with the guy, but Sokka had at least hoped they could be civil with each other. Apparently Zuko couldn’t even manage that.  
  
Well, whatever. Sokka didn’t care.  
  
No, really. He didn’t care at all.  
  
Not one bit.   
  
The sudden burst of anger pumping through his veins was probably unrelated.  
  
As the crew maneuvered him into place beside Aang and Zuko, Sokka forced himself to take some deep breaths. Now was not the time to be thinking about Zuko and whatever feelings he may or may not have had toward Sokka. He had to focus. He had to _win_.  
  
The judges had filled out their seats. Piandao stepped out onto the set and gave Sokka a smile and a wink, which made Sokka feel just the slightest bit better. Members of the crew yelled a few things back and forth, and then an announcement was made that hushed the audience down until the set was so quiet, you could have heard a grain of salt hit the ground.  
  
Like before, someone behind the camera counted down silently on their fingers. Then…  
  
“Ladies and gentleman, welcome back to Round Two of Best. Chef. Alive!” Piandao said, and the audience exploded with applause.  
  
“We started with four chefs. Now, only three stand before you. Tonight, these chefs will face off to see who can prepare the best entre!”  
  
There was more clapping. Sokka managed to catch Katara’s eye and give her a tiny smile. She and Hakoda beamed right back at him.  
  
“As you all know, there is one more ingredient to this battle: our secret ingredient,” Piandao recited. Any viewer knew the drill by now, but the secret ingredient reveal was part of the _Best Chef Alive_ ritual. Piandao walked over now to where the ingredient was concealed under a metal box on a raised table. Sokka watched him with anticipation, his heart beginning to race as his pre-competition nerves took over.  
  
“All the chefs must incorporate this ingredient seamlessly into their dishes today,” Piandao explained. “As soon as the ingredient is revealed, the clock will start and the chefs will get cooking.”  
  
With his usual showmanship, Piandao grinned and drew the moment out a little longer. “ _Are. You. Ready?_ ”  
  
 _I’m_ _ready_ , Sokka thought as the audience cheered in the affirmative. Whatever was under there, Sokka was gonna transform it into the best damn thing the judges had ever tasted. He wasn’t coming in second to Zuko, not again. He was ready.  
  
The cheering died down, and Piandao waited just a few more seconds before speaking again.  
  
“ _AND THE SECRET INGREDIENT…IS…_ ”  
  
The hush that fell over the audience was so total, Sokka wondered if everyone in the room could hear his heart pounding straight out of his chest.  
  
“ _LAMB!_ ”

* * *

Sokka’s jaw dropped. He whipped around to face Aang, and vaguely noticed that Zuko was having a nearly identical reaction on Aang’s other side.  
  
“ _Aang,_ ” Sokka said, totally forgetting the fact that the clock had started and the cameras were capturing their every move.  
  
Aang didn’t cook with meat. Not _ever_. Everyone knew that. The Network _definitely_ knew that, because it was in every contract Aang had ever signed. Making lamb the secret ingredient put Aang in an impossible situation: go against everything he stood for or risk disqualification.  
  
And make that decision on live television for the world to see.  
  
Aang’s face cycled through a series of emotions in quick succession as he stared at the table of lamb. He looked first shocked, and then deeply hurt, but finally his face settled into one of hardened anger. He clenched his fists at his sides.  
  
“It’s fine,” he said, staring resolutely forward.  
  
“Aang,” Zuko said, and he sounded so upset Sokka jerked his eyes away from Aang and looked at him. Did he actually care that much?  
  
“Guys, it’s fine,” Aang repeated. He refused to look at them, instead turning around so he was no longer facing the pile of lamb. “You need to get started. The clock is ticking.”  
  
Against his will, Sokka looked up at the giant clock on the wall. They were already thirty seconds in, and time wasn’t slowing down to give them time to process.  
  
He looked back at the table of lamb, at the judges, at Piandao, the chef who taught Sokka everything he knew. If Piandao felt guilty about what he’d just done, he didn’t show it. He had his standard mysterious smirk as he watched the three chefs reckon with the curveball he’d just thrown them. Sokka wondered how much, if at all, his mentor had been involved in the decision to betray Aang like this.  
  
Sokka suddenly felt a little sick to his stomach.  
  
He reached out and squeezed Aang’s shoulder. “Are you sure?”  
  
“Yeah. I’m sure. Go.”  
  
Sokka nodded and glanced back at the clock.  
  
They were already one minute in.  
  
Sokka’s gaze slid away from the clock at the same time as Zuko’s, and for a brief second their shocked expressions met across the hard line of Aang’s shoulders. Seeing how shaken Zuko looked was so startling, it made Sokka’s heart go a little cold. But Zuko’s face was also a reminder: this was a competition.  
  
Sokka moved, and Zuko was just a millisecond behind him.  
  
As he skidded to a halt in front of the pile of lamb, Sokka cursed himself. In all his shock and surprise, he’d failed to execute the most important step of the round: picking a recipe. He stared at the different cuts of lamb, feeling almost overwhelmed at the sight of them. Having meat as the secret ingredient made the decision both easier and harder – easier because he didn’t have to scour through his memory for one obscure recipe that incorporated it, but harder because Sokka had dozens of lamb recipes to choose from. His eyes flicked from the loin to the shoulder to the breast before finally landing on the rack – a series of curved, connected pieces of meat still wrapped around what once were the lamb’s ribs.  
  
Rack of lamb. Sokka could work with that. The recipe was extremely time sensitive, especially with more than a minute already gone, but he could do it. He knew he could.  
  
While Zuko looked over the lamb shoulder, Sokka gathered up a few of the heavy racks and hauled them over to his workstation. He couldn’t waste another second if he was going to finish this in time.  
  
The key to the perfect roasted rack was the complex combination of flavor that accompanied it. For this particular recipe, that flavor came from three sources: the powder rub that would be applied to the meat before it was cooked, the liquid sauce that would be added after the meat came out of the oven, and the spicy vegetable salad that would join the meat on the final plate. The sheer volume of different ingredients that went into each component meant that the recipe required not only speed, but above all else, deadly precision. And precision was Sokka’s specialty.  
  
He preheated his oven before darting over to the pantry. Aang was already there, fuming and resolutely placing ingredients into his basket, and Sokka was careful to avoid him as he grabbed what he needed. _Cumin, dried chiles, fennel seeds, star anise, ginger, onion powder, garlic_ …Shit, so many ingredients his basket couldn’t even hold all of them. Sokka settled on taking at least everything he needed for his rub and then making a second trip for everything else.  
  
He ran back to his workstation and flicked on the stove. While his skillet was heating, he measured out each of the ingredients into a separate bowl and tossed them all together. The result was a chunky, heterogenous mix that looked more like a trail mix than a rub. He tossed the mixture into his skillet and set his watch for three minutes.  
  
Aang was back at his workstation now, staring angrily down at a pile of vegetables he was beginning to chop with cold precision. Sokka realized that Aang had never approached the table of lamb, and that even now his workstation was free of any hint of meat whatsoever.  
  
Sokka tried to ignore the concern that realization ignited in him. Aang could make his own choices.  
  
On the other side of Aang, Zuko was just arriving at his workstation. Like Sokka had suspected, Zuko had grabbed the lamb shoulder, along with a basket full of ingredients stacked so high he was struggling to carry all of them. Gone was the cocky, slow-moving Zuko from Round One. The jarring beginning of the round seemed to have kicked him into high gear, and Sokka was a little bit satisfied to see Zuko looking just as flustered as the rest of them. He was human, after all.  
  
Sokka was just finishing trimming the fat from the rack when his watch went off. He dumped the now-heated mixture of spices into another bowl and ground it up into a fine powder – now it was starting to look like a rub! The fragrance of the warmed spices was starting to permeate the air around him, smelling exactly as delectable as it was supposed to. Sokka coated the racks in with the powder rub, tossed them on a baking sheet, and threw them into the oven. The competition clock had been running for about seven minutes in now, which left him with about eight minutes at the end of the hour to coat the lamb in sauce and once it had endured its forty-five-minute roast.  
  
Eight minutes. Okay. He could work with that.  
  
With the lamb in the oven it was time to get started on said sauce, so Sokka jogged back over to the pantry to gather what he needed. He was laser focused on the spice rack, filling his arms with dried peppercorns and cinnamon and cardamom, when Zuko dashed into the pantry behind him. _Why are we always meeting like this?_ Sokka thought as he tried to ignore Zuko and avoid another hand-holding incident. He almost managed to make it out of the pantry without embarrassing himself again, but just as he was reaching for the veal stock, Zuko appeared behind him like a ghost.  
  
Sokka leapt around in surprise, and Zuko looked immediately remorseful.  
  
“Sorry! Sorry, I just – I need to get to the flour,” he said quickly.  
  
“It’s fine,” Sokka told him. “I’m sorry, you just scared me.”  
  
Zuko paused uncomfortably for a moment, an odd look on his face. Sokka didn’t move; he stayed frozen as he waited for Zuko to grab what he needed. Eventually, with a frustrated exhale, Zuko leaned forward, reaching his arm down past Sokka’s waist into the low shelf behind him. Sokka flinched at their sudden closeness, unable to comprehend why Zuko was now crowding him back against the pantry shelves, their chests so close they were almost touching. What the hell was he –  
  
 _Idiot_ , Sokka chastised himself as Zuko grabbed a bag of flour from behind him. He’d been blocking Zuko the whole time.  
  
“I’m – ”  
  
“It’s fine,” Zuko said immediately, and their faces were so close now they were nearly nose-to-nose. Even though Sokka knew he needed to _move_ , and knew the clock was ticking down as steadily as ever, something in Zuko’s eyes stopped him. All Sokka’s brainpower was suddenly focused on trying to understand the _look_ Zuko was giving him now as they both stood unmoving, alone in the pantry. Zuko wasn’t annoyed, like Sokka would have expected. There was something much more meaningful there – some mix of curiosity and caution, and something else. Something unspoken, like Zuko was trying to telepathically communicate and Sokka was just on the brink of receiving the message.  
  
Sokka was suddenly overwhelmingly aware of the total lack of distance between them. It should have made him uncomfortable, the way Zuko’s arm was hovering less than an inch away from his waist and his eyes were so close Sokka could just make out the flecks of mahogany that dotted his inner irises, but instead Sokka just felt flustered and hot all over. There was definitely _something_ happening in what little air was suspended between them that Sokka couldn’t quite put a name to.  
  
“I…”  
  
Zuko said the word and then let his mouth fall shut again, biting his lip and bunching up his eyebrows.  
  
 _What? What is it?_ Sokka wanted to ask but didn’t, scared as he was to pierce the odd tension prickling around them. Zuko’s lips parted again, just barely, and Sokka found himself leaning in to hear whatever he might say next…  
  
But then Sokka’s ears picked up the squeak of running sneakers against the kitchen floor as the camera crew raced over to the pantry, apparently wondering what the rivals had been doing there for so long.  
  
Zuko heard it too, and in an instant he’d grabbed the flour and jumped away from Sokka, flashing him one more odd _look_ before bolting from the pantry.  
  
It was impossible, and yet Sokka swore he could still feel an outline of heat in the air from where Zuko had stood only moments ago.  
  
He had absolutely _no_ idea what just happened.  
  
The crew arrived long after Zuko had left to find Sokka still standing there, leaning up against the shelves as if he was just taking a breather. The sight of them jolted him, and he raced around the pantry and grabbed the rest of what he needed for the sauce before running back to his workstation without a comment for the cameras about what had just gone down. Sokka didn’t even know what he would have told them if they’d asked.  
  
 _Shit shit shit_ , he thought, throwing the ingredients out onto his counter and glancing at the clock. How had he wasted so much time already? The sauce needed to start simmering _immediately_. With shaking hands, he poured the veal broth into a sauce pan and measured out the spices, stirring them in before maneuvering the pan onto the stove and lighting a flame beneath it. As the broth heated and thickened, he set a fifteen-minute timer on his watch and prepared to whisk in a stick of butter.  
  
Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to stop his gaze from sliding back over to Zuko’s workstation. Zuko’s flour had apparently been transformed into some sort of dough, and he was folding it now around little balls of meat into half-moon-shaped dumplings. Even though all of Sokka’s attention should have been on keeping the sauce stirring, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Zuko’s sprightly hands as they pinched and molded the dough. The lightning-quick delicacy of his fingertips was _mesmerizing_. Sokka couldn’t look away.  
  
Piandao was wandering toward the chefs now, so Sokka forced himself to focus back on his cooking – which is what he should have been doing in the first place!  
  
Sokka’s workstation was first in the lineup, and Piandao’s first stop. “How are you holding up, Sokka?” he asked, shooting Sokka a conspiratorial smile that Sokka couldn’t wholeheartedly return.  
  
He did his best, though. “I’m hanging in there,” he admitted, looking straight into the cameras and speaking directly to any funny, talented, random Twitter users who might be watching. “I’ve got my rack in the oven, I’m about to take this sauce off the stove, and after that it’ll be down to the salad.”  
  
“It sounds like you have a plan!”  
  
“That I definitely do,” Sokka chuckled.  
  
Piandao leaned in, giving him the same playful look he’d given Mai during the last round. “I tuned in to your guest spot on _Flex-Meals_ with Ty Lee. You guys have some great chemistry – any chance we’ll see you two collaborating again in a more romantic setting?”  
  
Sokka instinctively opened his mouth to inform Piandao that Ty Lee was so far out of his league it wasn’t even funny, but at the word “romantic,” the deafening sound of shattering glass filled the studio.  
  
Along with everyone else in the room, Sokka whipped around and saw Zuko, standing over the remains of a mixing bowl that was now in pieces on the ground, along with whatever mixture had been inside.  
  
The sound and the scene sent Sokka flying into a vivid flashback, back three years, to their first time ever competing against each other on _Iron Chef America_. That fight had started with almost the exact same sound, the sharp clatter of glass against the ground as Sokka brushed past Zuko and loosened his grip on a bottle of white wine. Zuko, incensed, had been the first to start yelling, but Sokka was a rookie with a chip on his shoulder who was more than happy to join in. The two were nearly to blows when the camera crew ran onto the set and physically separated them.  
  
Sokka had regretted the stupid fight ever since. The exchange had been nothing more than an explosion of his pent-up rage against the cooking establishment, and yet it had practically defined his career ever since them. All because he hadn’t been smart enough yet to avoid the ticking time bomb that was Zuko’s temper.  
  
So as Sokka looked over at Zuko now, standing shaking over his ruined sauce, he had just one thought on his mind.  
  
 _No.  
  
_ ** _No.  
  
_** _Not again.  
  
_ Before his common sense could catch up to him, Sokka was bounding up to Zuko, leaping deftly over the pile of glass and gripping both of Zuko’s shoulders, hard.  
  
“What do you need?” he asked forcefully.  
  
Zuko’s eyes flicked up toward him. They were narrowed with some combination of shock and rage, and Sokka gulped as they met his. He’d seen that face before, just before Zuko exploded at him the last time, and he wondered now if he’d miscalculated and stepped directly onto a land mine.  
  
“What?” Zuko asked harshly.  
  
“Your sauce,” Sokka said, gesturing down with his nose. “What. Do. You. Need?”  
  
Zuko stared at him for a few more seconds, drawing some heaving breaths and leaving Sokka wondering if he was about to get pummeled.  
  
Then, Zuko went limp in his hands.  
  
“Eggs,” he whispered. “Parsley. Lemon juice.”  
  
“Okay, okay,” Sokka said, giving his shoulders a squeeze that he hoped was reassuring. He sprinted off toward the pantry, fully aware of the roomful of eyes on his back as he rounded the corner. To make matters worse, his watch was starting to beep now, telling him it was time to remove his sauce from the stove, but he couldn’t listen to it now. Instead he raced around he pantry and grabbed Zuko what he needed. This time would be well-spent as long as it stopped Zuko from blowing up at him again and destroying _both_ of their chances of advancing.  
  
Sokka found the parsley last and then ran out of the pantry. He dumped the stuff on Zuko’s counter and made to run back to his burning sauce – the beeping of his watch was threatening to induce a heart attack – but then he saw Zuko, still rooted in place where he’d left him.  
  
“Hey,” Sokka said, running over to him without thinking. He grabbed Zuko’s shoulder again, with just one hand this time. “You good?”  
  
Zuko let out another long exhale before nodding. A strand of hair had come loose from his tight ponytail and landed on his pale forehead. “Yeah, I’m okay.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Sokka gave him one more squeeze before dashing away.  
  
He wasn’t giving up any more of his time for Zuko. He was disturbed by how easy it had been for him to give up so much for Zuko already.  
  
His sauce wasn’t ruined, like he’d feared, but it was overcooked and reduced to a much smaller amount than he would have liked. He dipped in a spoon and found while it still tasted _good_ , it wasn’t exactly _right_ , and he wondered how the off flavor might mesh with the other spices in the dish. He stared worriedly down into the saucepan, wondering if the mistake was so damning that he should start the sauce over, or if he should just trust what he had and hope the rest of his cooking would make up for it.  
  
He glanced at the clock. Less than half of the hour was remaining.  
  
The steadily-descending numbers made the decision for him. There was no time to start the sauce over again, especially with everything he had left to do. The overdone sauce would have to be good enough. There was no other option.  
  
A little frantically now, Sokka removed the saucepan from the stove and then ran back to the pantry to get what he needed for his salad. Normally he would have taken the time to be a bit pickier with the vegetables he was selecting, but today he just didn’t have that luxury. He settled on grabbing whatever looked acceptable and then flying back over to his cutting board to begin chopping them up.  
  
Sokka was rushing so fast now he could barely keep track of what the other two chefs were doing. Zuko had, thankfully, snapped out of his funk and was now tossing some meat in a sauté pan on his stove. Aang was pulling something out of his oven, eyes still hard with cold concentration. After Zuko’s spill, Piandao had cut his commentary short and was hanging back with the judges, letting the camera crew capture candid shots of the chefs at work. Sokka was grateful to be left alone and avoid dealing with the painful feeling that filled his gut when Piandao looked at him.  
  
The next twenty-five minutes flew by like twenty-five seconds. Sokka was barely aware of what he was doing as he finished the salad and then finally removed the lamb from the oven. He sliced the rack into individual pieces of meat, so that each one was a circular cut, about an inch thick and with its own rib bone still attached like a natural handle. Sokka sent a silent prayer to the universe that the errors in his sauce were forgivable before coating it onto rack.  
  
Less than three minutes remained, so Sokka ran over to the dish rack and picked out a stack of the first thing he spotted, some round, nondescript white plates. He raced back to his workstation and began plating, first the meat, and then the salad on top of it.  
  
In Round One, Sokka had finished with time to spare. But now, he was desperately taking every last second he was given to finish plating his entre. Through the rush of his feverish final touches he was just barely aware of Zuko, who was racing around his workstation just as quickly as Sokka was, and of Aang, who was finished and standing away from his workstation with his arms folded across his chest.  
  
In all of the commotion, Sokka must have missed every other warning that had come out of Piandao’s mouth, because now the host was counting down the last few seconds.  
  
“Ten…nine…”  
  
Sokka threw the remains of the chopped salad onto the last plate.  
  
“Five…four…”  
  
Spotting a misplaced drop of sauce, Sokka grappled for a towel and made one final dash to wipe the plate clean.  
  
“Three…two…ONE! That’s it, chefs, your time is up!”  
  
Sokka and Zuko leapt away from their counters simultaneously, careful to take no more time than they were given. Sokka was panting from a sudden exhaustion that threatened to send his body swaying, and he saw that across the kitchen, Zuko’s chest was heaving too. Between them, Aang was still.  
  
Sokka looked down at his plated lamb. He prayed it would be enough.

* * *

“Chef Sokka! Please tell us about your dish.”  
  
Sokka took a deep breath and a step forward from the line of chefs. Even though he’d had time to catch his breath after his final rush of exertion at the end of the round, his body was still wired with anxiety. The race was over, but his furiously pumping heart didn’t realize that.  
  
“Chefs,” Sokka began, pleased to hear that the word came out with much more confidence than he was feeling. “Today, I made you guys a rack of cumin-spiced lamb along with a chili pepper salad.”  
  
“Fantastic presentation,” Bumi began. Sokka had to agree with him. The bone-in lamb looked absolutely delectable, and the chopped salad atop it gave the dish an air of class and elegance that the lamb probably wouldn’t have had alone.  
  
“For those watching back home, I also feel I need to comment on the scent of this dish,” Pakku said. “It’s absolutely wonderful. Very aromatic. You have a real knack for involving all the senses in your cooking, Chef Sokka.”  
  
Sokka smiled nervously at Pakku. The old man was so hard to please – a compliment from him right off the bat had to be a good sign, right?  
  
“Shall we?” Jeong Jeong asked.  
  
The three men each took their slice by the bone and bit in simultaneously. They were quiet for a few moments. Sokka hoped that the silence was of the awestruck variety, but he started to grow uncomfortable when he watched the judges’ faces grow confused.  
  
Jeong Jeong broke the silence. “It’s…hm.”  
  
“Right,” said Pakku. “There’s…something off about it. I can’t put my finger on it.”  
  
“It’s the sauce, I think,” Jeong Jeong decided. “It just…doesn’t quite go with the rest of the seasoning. It’s _good_ , but it’s not _right_.”  
  
Bumi nodded along sadly. “The meat really is cooked to perfection. But I think there are some improvements that could have been made.”  
  
Pakku looked directly back at Sokka. “Chef Sokka, I have to say I’m disappointed. With lamb as our ingredient of the day, I thought we would see something more impressive from you.”  
  
 _Oh_.  
  
Sokka felt his throat begin to constrict, like when he was seven years old and having his first allergic reaction to a bee sting. Suddenly the room around him felt ice cold, empty of all of humanity and filled only with disappointed eyes.  
  
So. His gamble with the sauce hadn’t paid off. He’d fucked up the recipe, and now he was facing the consequences. He’d done what he’d promised he’d never do: he’d gone off-script. And he’d done it for _Zuko_.  
  
And now it was going to be the end of him.  
  
Sokka’s whole body felt numb, and it was as if some poltergeist opened his mouth and spoke, “Thank you, Chefs,” through him, because Sokka was certain the words weren’t his own. The same spirit forced his body to take a step back into the line of chefs. It wasn’t Sokka behind the wheel right now; he felt immobile as a coma patient.  
  
“Chef Zuko.”  
  
 _That_ , among everything else, sparked one harsh flash of heat in Sokka’s stomach. He watched as Zuko stepped forward from the lineup. The sweat had been dabbed from his forehead and his flyaways returned to his ponytail, so all evidence of his rushed finish was totally erased from his appearance. And of course, on his lips, so “Sexiest Chef Alive” and infuriating it made Sokka want to strangle him, was that _smirk_.  
  
Sokka wondered if Zuko realized, or if he even cared. He wondered if Zuko understood that Sokka, someone who _needed_ this title to finally reclaim the narrative of his cooking career, had sacrificed his chances of winning for Zuko, someone who had never needed for anything in his life. Sokka wondered if Zuko felt sorry. He wondered if Zuko felt anything toward him at all.  
  
“Chefs,” Zuko was beginning, although Sokka was just barely tuning in. “I’ve prepared for you buttered lobster tail stuffed with ground lamb, along with lobster-and-lamb gyoza. Enjoy.”  
  
Sokka wished he could unplug the chef robot that lived in his brain every once in a while, but he couldn’t, which was why his well-programmed eyes automatically began to analyze Zuko’s dish even while Sokka felt like he was breaths away from passing out. The lobster tail was cracked open in the middle and heaped with steaming, seasoned lamb. Android Sokka had to respect that Zuko had chosen to cook something that was a little less refined, a little more messy, the kind of food that would spill down your chin the second you bit into it (and his unhelpful brain was more than happy to pull up a detailed image of Zuko doing just that). Each plated lobster tail was flanked by two gyoza, with one dumpling on either side of the main attraction. Again, Sokka couldn’t help himself from appreciating the perfect pleating of the dumplings, and from remembering the lightning-quick way Zuko’s fingers had flown over the dough. Seeing the result was almost as good as seeing the process.  
  
Yeah. Sokka really hated his brain right about now.  
  
“I think this was a really interesting choice of dish,” Bumi was telling Zuko. “I wouldn’t necessarily think to pair lobster and lamb. I’m curious to see how it’s turned out.”  
  
“Agreed,” Jeong Jeong said. “Good presentation, too. It’s hard to make surf-n-turf look classy, but I think you did just that.”  
  
“I’m wondering about these dumplings,” Pakku said. “I mean, lobster and gyoza. These two foods don’t really go together. Even on the plate together, they look a little…odd.”  
  
“I think we should taste it,” Bumi suggested.  
  
“Good idea.”  
  
The men each cut off a piece of the lobster along with a pile of lamb filling. The room was still as they tasted.  
  
“Very strong dish,” Jeong Jeong observed finally.  
  
“Yes. I take back what I said, Chef,” Bumi said. “The lobster and the lamb go very well together. I don’t know what you did, but somehow you made that combination work really well. I’m going to have to order more of this from you sometime.”  
  
“Don’t forget the gyoza,” Pakku said, stabbing one with his fork now.  
  
The judges turned now to their dumplings, chewing thoughtfully.  
  
“Here are my thoughts on the dumplings,” Jeong Jeong said after a pause. “They’re…fine. Good, even. But for me, they aren’t adding much to the dish.”  
  
“That was my thought too,” Bumi chimed in. “As far as potstickers go, these are very good. But you didn’t really need them. The lobster was good enough on its own.”  
  
“Honestly, Chef Zuko?” Pakku said. “To me, these gyoza feel like a last-minute addition to your plate. And I don’t like feeling like I’m eating an afterthought.”  
  
Sokka saw the line of Zuko’s shoulders stiffen. His face held its expression, but there was…something. Something in his eyes. Just the slightest tilt of their corners, so Sokka could only just see the flash of something that felt a little like sadness.  
  
“That’s not to say they aren’t delicious,” Bumi said quickly. “They just weren’t necessarily the best call for this dish.”  
  
“Thank you, Chefs,” Zuko said. To the judges, to the audience, to the camera, Zuko was the picture of composure. Sokka thought he might be the only one close enough to see the truth: Zuko wasn’t unscathed. He was affected.  
  
As Zuko stepped back into the line, Piandao called out the last of the names. “Chef Aang.”  
  
Aang took a slow step forward.   
  
As Aang fixed his gaze on the judges, Sokka felt the entire atmosphere of the studio shift. Suddenly, the air was churning like the sky before a thunderstorm, with Aang’s furious expression at its eye.  
  
Piandao cleared his throat. “Ahem. Chef, please tell us what you’ve prepared.”  
  
“Slow-cooked shawarma,” Aang said sharply without preamble. “Topped with pomegranate seeds. Served in a lettuce wrap. And instead of lamb, I used seitan.” He gave the judges a hard stare. “A vegan substitute.”  
  
Sokka, along with every other person in the room, stared at Aang dumbfoundedly. The silence seemed to spur Aang.  
  
“Also, there’s something I want to say,” he said, and went on without waiting for permission. “I don’t cook with meat. I don’t eat meat. But you know what? I would never, _ever_ force my dietary philosophy on someone else. And I expected the same respect to be shown to me.”  
  
Another beat of silence. Then:  
  
“Enjoy.”  
  
The room was silent as a black hole. The judges stared at Aang, seemingly afraid of breaking the quiet with even the smallest _clink_ of their silverware. The audience was frozen in place, like all those faces were nothing but a photograph of a crowd.  
  
It was Bumi who broke the silence. “Well, why don’t we start with the presentation, then?”  
  
Pakku and Jeong Jeong both shot him sharp looks, but eventually Jeong Jeong nodded. “It’s…good,” he admitted. “It’s very good. That’s hard to do with shawarma. I like what you did with the pomegranate seeds.”  
  
“This isn’t something I would normally say about shawarma, but this looks downright refreshing,” Bumi said. “I could definitely see myself digging into this at your restaurant.”  
  
Aang said nothing.  
  
Pakku exhaled tiredly. “Well, let’s see how it tastes, I suppose.”  
  
They picked up their wraps and bit in – the sound of crisp, crunching lettuce filled the room. Sokka watched as Pakku finished his bite, stared at the food in his hands, and then slowly set it down.  
  
“Ah,” he said simply.  
  
“It’s – it’s – ” Bumi began ineloquently, hand groping the air as if that might bring the words closer to him.  
  
“It’s perfect,” Jeong Jeong finished for him. “It’s incredible. There’s not a thing wrong with it.”  
  
“It tastes even better with the seitan than it would have with the lamb,” Pakku said, with a look toward Piandao. Sokka, more than ever, was _dying_ to know whose idea this was. Whose _fault_ was this? Who had done this to Aang?  
  
“Yes. I echo everything my colleagues have already said,” Bumi said. “Aang, I think you should be very proud of this dish. It’s one of the best I’ve ever tasted.” Bumi, too, glanced toward Piandao, who kept his eyes fixed pointedly on the line of chefs.  
  
“Thank you, Chef Aang,” Piandao said. “The judges will now deliberate.”  
  
There was a collective sigh as Bumi, Pakku, and Jeong Jeong turned to face each other. In the previous round, the judging had been quick, clearly an almost automatically unanimous decision. This time there was a heated debate going on at the judges’ table. At one point, Bumi gestured at Piandao to join the huddle and began whisper-yelling at him. Sokka couldn’t hear his words, but he could see Bumi’s angry gesticulating and the furious lines on Pakku’s forehead. And every few words, Sokka could see them mouthing his name.  
  
He was up for elimination. And it felt like shit.  
  
After what felt like hours, the group parted. Nobody looked happy, not even Piandao, who resumed his place at the side of the judges’ table with an attitude much more defeated than his usual.  
  
“Thank you, judges,” he began disingenuously. Then he cleared his throat and began again, this time with almost all of his usual flair. “The judges have come to a decision. I will now announce the name of the chef who will not be returning for next month’s dessert round.”  
  
Sokka’s heartrate had taken up a staccato beat once more. He dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand, willing the wetness at the corners of his eyes to contain itself, pleading with himself to take the loss gracefully, at least while he was still on camera. He just had to be strong for a little longer.  
  
The quiet was so heavy that Sokka _knew_ Zuko could hear his thundering pulse, because Zuko spared him a glance now, his eyes murky with unhappiness. Sokka glared resolutely forward, refusing to return Zuko’s gaze. He wasn’t going to give Zuko anything else ever again. Not after this.  
  
“And the chef who will not be advancing to the next round is…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm feeling like we just haven't had enough one-on-one, in-person Zukka interaction yet...The next chapter will have to fix that.


	7. Chapter 7

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _feelig ljke absolute shit._

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _?  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_Talk to me.  
  
  
_Sokka stared at the message. Where to start?  
  
If the Blue Spirit had tuned in to the episode, then he’d already heard the cuttingly casual way Piandao had announced Aang’s name as the chef being eliminated that night. But the cameras might not have picked up on the sound of Katara’s furious voice yelling “ _Are you kidding me?_ ” from the audience, or the angry set of Aang’s jaw as he waited for the crew to call “ _CUT!_ ” before stalking silently out of the kitchen. The Blue Spirit couldn’t have seen the waves of relief and shame and anger that washed over Sokka all at once and then over and over in turns, pummeling him ever deeper into the quicksand of his own guilt for advancing despite his obviously subpar dish. But Sokka wasn’t sure if he was ready to talk about any of that yet.  
  
Sokka could tell him about the way Piandao had made a beeline for Sokka as soon as the round had ended. He’d spouted some bullshit like “Sokka, _please_ , just let me explain,” and Sokka had blown him off as if Piandao wasn’t one of the people Sokka looked up to most in the world. But Sokka didn’t want to talk about Piandao right now. The sting of his betrayal was still too fresh.  
  
He could tell him about…Zuko. Jesus, was that a can of worms. Sokka could barely keep track of all the mixed signals Zuko had thrown his way tonight. He’d gone from totally avoiding Sokka (because, yes, Sokka was 95% sure that’s what Zuko had been doing before the round had begun) to holding him hostage in the pantry, standing so close they could have been kissing. The weirdest thing about _that_ was…well, was that it hadn’t been weird. That having Zuko in Sokka’s space didn’t make Sokka feel uneasy; it made him feel _exhilarated_. That it was something Sokka might potentially be open to having happen again.  
  
The revelation that Sokka might be maybe, sort of, a _tiny bit_ attracted to his “rival” was disturbing enough. But then there was the _sauce_. Sokka didn’t know who he was more furious with: Zuko, for creating such a big distraction in the first place, or _himself_ , for what he did next. Sokka kept replaying the moment in his head and wondering what the hell he’d been thinking, even though he knew full well that in that moment he’d scarcely been producing thoughts at all. He’d seen Zuko in trouble and he’d sprung to action. That was all it had taken. It was pathetic.  
  
Sokka could tell the Blue Spirit about the way Zuko had hovered near the tasting table after the round, betraying no hint of celebration despite the fact that he’d just advanced to the final round along with Sokka. Zuko had given Sokka one of his _looks_ then, as if Sokka was in any mood to taste his stupid, perfect dumplings after judging like _that_. Sokka had avoided him just like he’d avoided everyone else. Zuko had looked sad, which had made Sokka feel sad, which then made him feel angry, and it was just a weird, ugly cycle of feelings too jarring for Sokka to sort out while sober.  
  
It probably wouldn’t translate well to text.  
  
So, Sokka would just…keep the Zuko thing to himself.  
  
  


**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _idk if you could tell pn tv but the round was an absolute shitshow  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _my dish was trash  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _aangs was perfect  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _but he got sent home? ok  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _guess bca is a total joke now  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _we literallt walked to the nearest bar  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _have ben getting wasted ever since  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _im trying to black out but it isnt working  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _so if you turn on the news tomorrow and theyre saying they found me dead in a ditch u kno why_

  
  
Sokka set his phone down on the bar and dropped his pounding head into his hands. The familiar backdrop of quiet chatter and clinking glasses made for pleasant white noise, but it wasn’t loud enough to silence the deafening thoughts that were still screaming in Sokka’s skull.  
  
Aang wasn’t helping either. He sat in the barstool beside Sokka, staring silently down at the counter with that same hard, closed-off look he’d been wearing all night. The two had barely said four words to each other since the round had ended, but Sokka thought being in each other’s brooding presence was at least a tiny bit cathartic in its own way.   
  
Each time the bartender came by to check in on them, Sokka ordered another two shots. Aang had stopped accepting his after round one or two, and Sokka wasn’t one to let mediocre alcohol go to waste, so he took on the burden of throwing back Aang’s shots himself. By now, Sokka was on round…eight? Ten? Apparently, he was drunk enough that his usually perfect math skills were inhibited but his photographic memory was still tragically intact. Sokka cursed his body mass and his tolerance and shamelessly ordered another round.  
  
Aang was on his phone when the next two shot glasses arrived in front of them. “I’m gonna go,” he announced, without making eye contact with Sokka or the drinks. “Katara’s here to pick me up.”  
  
Sokka looked at him indignantly. Katara hadn’t offered to pick up _Sokka_. Did family mean nothing to her anymore? “Where’s my ride?”  
  
Aang was so far removed from the joking mood that he didn’t even answer. He pulled out his wallet and tossed a couple of bills out onto the counter before sliding off the barstool and slinking away, leaving Sokka alone at the bar.  
  
The two shot glasses stared at Sokka.  
  
Sokka stared back.  
  
“Well, if you insist,” Sokka said, picking one up and throwing it back. This was the one, he could feel it. This was the shot that would erase this whole awful night from his memory. This was the one that would wash his mind of the vaguely pornographic replay of Zuko’s fingers pressing into his dough, and the disturbingly addictive fantasy of them pressing into _other things_. Because _fuck_ , if that thought hadn’t forced itself into Sokka’s mind’s eye at least a hundred times tonight.   
  
Sokka had been wrong, though, because the fantasy didn’t go away, it just _shifted_ , to one where Zuko was now approaching Sokka in this very bar, looking sleek and sexy and downright _delicious_ in a skintight black turtleneck and charcoal slacks. Sokka ogled openly, confused by but content with the fact that alcohol-induced hallucinations were apparently a thing for him now. Maybe if he drank a little more, he’d get a glimpse of what was hiding _under_ that turtleneck, too.  
  
Fantasy Zuko came to a stop a few feet away from Sokka, like a vampire who needed permission before stepping any closer. He hovered next to one of the barstools, a nervous expression on his face as he finally spoke.  
  
“…Sokka.”  
  
Wait. Fuck. That wasn’t the sultry voice of fantasy Zuko, who like to whisper dirty nothings in Sokka’s ear while running his hands through Sokka’s hair. That was the awkward, anxious voice of real-life Zuko, who always seemed to cram a mile of stress into an inch of speech.  
  
Zuko was really here.  
  
And Sokka was drooling over him like a goddamn dog.  
  
Sokka groaned and let his face sink back into his hands, in part to cover up the embarrassment that was surely plain on his face, and also to force himself to look away from Zuko’s perfect _everything_ , because if he stared any longer he _knew_ he was going to say something he’d regret.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Sokka said into his hands.  
  
There was a pause. “Um…Aang invited me,” Zuko finally answered.  
  
Of course he did. Leave it to Aang to extend the olive branch even when life was at its shittiest, and then to _abandon_ Sokka, leaving him to deal with Zuko on his own.  
  
“Well, Aang went home,” Sokka told him. “Sorry.”  
  
“Yeah, I can see that.” Sokka could sense his continued hesitation even though he wasn’t even looking at Zuko, could feel the constant effort of Zuko’s brain viciously redlining every thought he had before allowing his mouth to voice it. “Um…is it okay if I sit here?”  
  
“I don’t care,” Sokka lied. Actually, he cared in a big way. Zuko was the absolute _last_ person Sokka wanted to be around right now. Because not only did Zuko’s presence make Sokka feel like a total idiot, but it also brought back in vivid color each of the most painful memories Sokka had of the round that night.  
  
Some of the rage Sokka had managed to repress earlier began to boil back to the surface. Because why was Zuko here, really? To gloat? To celebrate? To rub in Sokka’s face the fact that he’d never had a doubt he would be in the final two? To show Sokka everything he’d never be able to have for himself? To remind him that _Zuko himself_ was just another one of those things?  
  
Fuck that.  
  
“Where’s your girlfriend?” Sokka snapped, looking up as Zuko settled into the barstool next to him. It was the best insult he could come up with on such short notice. Okay, it wasn’t actually an insult, but Sokka hoped his delivery would at least make Zuko feel like he’d been insulted.  
  
To Sokka’s confusion, Zuko merely shot him a puzzled look. “My…girlfriend?” he asked slowly. “Who are you talking about?”  
  
Sokka rolled his eyes and turned back to his remaining drink. “You know who I’m talking about. You and Mai aren’t as subtle as you think.”  
  
“Me and _Mai_ …” Zuko said, sounding almost a little amused at the thought.  
  
Sokka could never have predicted the next three words that came out of Zuko’s mouth.  
  
“Sokka, I’m gay.”   
  
Sokka was so surprised that he forgot he was supposed to be avoiding eye contact. He whipped around to face Zuko. “Wait, what?”  
  
Zuko tilted his head, an amused smile playing at the corners of his lips. “You really thought I was dating Mai?”  
  
“I – _yes_ ,” Sokka said, still struggling to process what Zuko had just said. “I mean, the way she talks – ”  
  
“I know, I know,” Zuko said, shaking his head. “She likes to stoke the flames. I think she finds it entertaining. And sometimes it’s… _useful_ , for the media to get that impression.” He looked down for a moment before meeting Sokka’s eye again. “But it’s all just talk. She’s my best friend. Nothing more than that.”  
  
“Oh,” Sokka said. “Shit. I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know.”  
  
“It’s okay, of course you didn’t,” Zuko said quickly. “And it’s not like I’m in the closet or anything. It’s just…being in the public eye, it’s usually easier to just keep my mouth shut about it.”  
  
Sokka let that sink in, fully aware that this was the longest conversation he’d ever had with Zuko and he’d already managed to put his foot in his mouth. Now would be the time to move on to less dangerous topics, like politics or the weather or literally _anything_ besides the kinds of people Zuko might want to have sex with. But, as usual, Sokka’s brain had other plans.  
  
Without his permission, the words played over and over again in Sokka’s head: _Zuko is gay.  
  
_That was…interesting information.  
  
_No, it’s not_ , Sokka told himself. Whoever Zuko may or may not be interested in was none of Sokka’s business. There was absolutely no way that would ever become relevant to Sokka’s life.  
  
Seeing a newcomer, the bartender approached and asked Zuko what he wanted. “Just a White Russian for me,” Zuko told him, holding out a heavy, black credit card. “And take care of his tab, too,” he said more quietly, nodding toward Sokka.  
  
Annoyance prickled in Sokka’s throat before he could help himself. “Hey, I can afford my own drinks,” he snapped. “I might not be a billionaire or whatever, but I’ve got money.”  
  
The bartender looked awkwardly between the two of them. Zuko gave him a small nod, and he scurried off with the card.  
  
Defeated, Sokka let his head fall down onto the counter. “Whatever, just…Venmo request me or something.”  
  
“Okay,” Zuko said, his tone making it obvious he had no plans to do so.  
  
The cool wood of the countertop was surprisingly comfortable, Sokka thought as he pressed his forehead against it. Maybe if he closed his eyes for long enough, Zuko would leave before Sokka could say something even more stupid. Even better, maybe he could just sleep here for the night. That seemed like a good course of action, given just how unconfident Sokka was in his ability to physically make his way out of the bar and into an Uber.  
  
As if he were reading Sokka’s mind, Zuko’s voice cut through the quiet noise around them. “Can I…give you a ride home?” Sokka heard him ask tentatively.  
  
Sokka turned his head to the side, pressing his cheek into the counter so he could see Zuko’s face. He didn’t LOOK like he was up to no good, but who could ever tell with Zuko? Sokka certainly couldn’t.  
  
“Why?” he settled on asking accusatorily.  
  
Zuko blinked nervously. “Well…based on this receipt, it looks like you’ve probably had enough for the night.”  
  
“Most of that was Aang,” Sokka grumbled.  
  
“Uh huh.” Zuko continued to look at him nervously. Sokka wondered if he would drop it, but he didn’t. “Well, even if that’s the case, you…look like you could use a ride.”  
  
“I’m _fine_ ,” Sokka assured him. He proved it by sitting up and falling right off the barstool, just barely stopping himself from landing on his ass by catching the ledge of the counter. “See? Fine. Cat-like reflexes. Most sober people can’t even do that.”  
  
“ _Sokka_.”  
  
Sokka wasn’t prepared for the odd pitch the word took, the way Zuko sounded at once firm and a little pleading. For some unknowable reason, Zuko really wanted this. And for an equally unknowable reason, Sokka wanted to give Zuko what he wanted.  
  
“Well, if you want to hang out with me so bad, I guess it’s fine,” Sokka conceded with a huff. He had enough self-awareness to know that he was being unnecessarily belligerent, but not enough self-control to actually stop himself from continuing.  
  
And no, he wasn’t projecting, thank you very much.  
  
“Thank you,” Zuko said, almost inappropriately relieved at Sokka’s response.  
  
Sokka pulled out his wallet – _yeah, take that rich boy, new money’s worth just as much as old money_ – and tossed out a few tens onto the counter. God knew the bartender probably deserved it. Then there was the matter of the final shot…  
  
“Cheers,” Sokka said matter-of-factly, knocking it back with a loud exhale. “Damn. I keep thinking it will taste better, but it never does.”  
  
“Yeah, isn’t that always the way with Fireball?”  
  
“You gonna finish that?” Sokka asked, eying Zuko’s untouched White Russian. “Or do you just like being seen with it? Like, _‘look at me, I’m so fancy, my drink has more than one ingredient in it_ ’?”  
  
Zuko rolled his eyes. “Sure, let’s go with that.”  
  
“Well, if it’s really up for grabs…” Sokka took a step toward it, but Zuko blocked him.  
  
“Let’s go, Sokka,” he said firmly, flashing him one of those pleading looks again.  
  
Sokka didn’t have to listen to him. He didn’t have to do anything Zuko told him to.   
  
“Fine,” he said.  
  
He turned his back to Zuko and began to make his way toward the exit, proud of the fact that he only _barely_ stumbled as he weaved his way between the tables. Zuko followed quickly behind him and then kept close to Sokka’s side. His arm twitched a little bit every time Sokka came close to tipping over, but he never reached out and grabbed Sokka. The horniest part of Sokka kind of wished he would.  
  
Together, they stepped out into the night air. Sokka assumed it must be cold, because Zuko pulled on the coat that had been slung over his arm, but in his drunken warmth Sokka didn’t feel the chill at all.  
  
What he _did_ feel was the tiniest pressure of Zuko’s hand on the small of his back, turning him around and steering him down the sidewalk. “I’m parked over here,” he explained. Before Sokka could even appreciate it, the feeling of Zuko’s hand was gone, like it had never been there at all.  
  
They trudged in silence down the path. Sokka shoved his hands in the pockets of his joggers and kicked at whatever interesting pebbles he came across, missing only about half the time. The socially-competent part of Sokka knew that this must be awkward, and that he should be filling the silence with some sort of talking. But the thing was, he had absolutely no idea what to say. He barely knew the first thing about Zuko, and what he did know was hardly the subject of polite conversation. He didn’t have a clue how to talk to the guy.  
  
Silence, then.  
  
And the weird thing about _that_ was…well, that it wasn’t weird.  
  
Walking down the starlit street, flanked by floral hedges, their soft footsteps accompanied by the faint echoes of a _G_ chord played by a guitarist in one of the restaurants they passed…it was nice. There was something almost a little comically romantic about the whole situation.  
  
For just the briefest of seconds, Sokka wondered if that had been Zuko’s plan all along. He glanced wordlessly at Zuko, who returned his gaze with a concerned, wide-eyed stare.  
  
Sokka shook his head and looked back down at the concrete. No way. There was no way. It was _Zuko_.  
  
“This is me,” Zuko said finally, coming slowly to a stop beside a black, nondescript SUV parallel-parked on the road.  
  
“Oh, okay,” Sokka said. He might have been just the teeniest, tiniest bit sad their walk had been cut short.  
  
Zuko looked between him and the car. “Okay, um, let me just – ”  
  
He dug through the pocket of his coat and located his keys, unlocking the car with a soft _chirp_. Then he swung open the passenger door, revealing a set of spotless tan seats and dark wood paneling. The interior was so clean that the car could have been straight off the lot.  
  
Zuko looked between the open door and Sokka, who hadn’t moved. Apparently interpreting his stillness as a lack of surefootedness, Zuko stepped closer and made to grab Sokka’s arm. “Here, let me – ”  
  
“Oh my god. I think I can get into a car by myself,” Sokka said indignantly, swatting Zuko’s hand away.  
  
His confidence seemed to instantly activate the universe’s sense of irony, because as soon as the last word left his mouth, Sokka was miscalculating the location of the edge of the sidewalk and tumbling straight down into Zuko’s passenger seat. The sensation of falling switched on Sokka’s lizard brain, and his hands reached out on their own and grappled for the first thing they came into contact with – which just so happened to be the expensive cashmere of Zuko’s sweater. The handhold was sturdy enough to spin Sokka around so he was no longer falling face-first into the car, but not enough to stop him from falling completely. Instead, now Sokka was toppling backwards into the seat, and Zuko was _following_ , dragged down by Sokka’s grip on his sweater.  
  
Sokka’s ass hit the seat sideways, so his legs were still hanging out of the car. Even though he was no longer in motion, the panic in his brain was redirected to the fact that Zuko was tumbling straight down on top of him, and Sokka was about to be crushed between Zuko and the leather of his seats.  
  
Sokka braced himself, eyes closed, but the weight of Zuko’s body never came. He opened his eyes and realized Zuko had caught himself, bracing his body with one arm on the passenger seat and the other on his center console. He was frozen in place; his terrified face was hovering just inches from Sokka’s.  
  
A third wave of panic began to set it. Because, _holy shit_. The body of Sokka’s nemesis-slash-wet-dream was practically draped over his own, pressed flush against his lower half and separated by just a hairsbreadth from their chests on up. Zuko’s face was so close to Sokka’s that the tip of his ponytail was brushing against Sokka’s cheek, and Sokka could see the slow bob of his Adam’s apple as he gulped. The sight was a recipe for bad decision-making.  
  
The journey downward could be blamed on gravity, but their entrenchment in this position was most definitely a two-person job. Even though Sokka’s brain was screaming at him to push Zuko away, he couldn’t seem to bring himself to loosen his grip on Zuko’s sweater. But even frazzled and intoxicated as he was, Sokka couldn’t help but notice that Zuko made no effort to pull away either.  
  
Instead, every part of Zuko’s body was statue-still, except for his face. As seconds passed and Sokka failed to display any sort of dissatisfaction with the situation, fear melted away to something else. It was a lot like the way Zuko had looked at him in the pantry earlier. He still looked guarded, hesitant, but the caution was accompanied by something like inquisitiveness.  
  
“Um…” Zuko murmured. The sound wasn’t high and anxious like before, but low and raspy, barely above a whisper. His amber eyes flicked back and forth between Sokka’s. They were so close that it would have been impossible for Sokka to miss the path they took next, slowly down toward his lips, where they stayed transfixed with some mix of curiosity and hunger. Sokka followed Zuko’s lead almost involuntarily, letting his eyes fall and shamelessly trace the pink curve of Zuko’s mouth, the way it hung just barely open, the way his tongue was ever so slightly visible, the way it would take nothing at all for Sokka to press his own mouth up against it.  
  
Everything about this should have been awkward and weird, but instead it felt like Sokka’s entire body was on fire with anticipation. Did Zuko really want to…? Was he really about to…? It felt like a dream, and yet Sokka didn’t believe his meager brain could have come up with something as beautiful as the sweep of Zuko’s dark lashes as he blinked slowly and then raised his eyes back up to meet Sokka’s.  
  
Zuko stayed still for another moment, pinning Sokka down with that silent, questioning look. Sokka didn’t know what the question was, didn’t _care_ , just wanted to say _yesyesyes_ with his whole being, but he stayed quiet for fear of sending Zuko running away.  
  
Hearing no answer, Sokka felt Zuko’s arms on either side of his head flex as Zuko began to lower himself, impossibly slowly, pressing his chest down against Sokka’s and letting his face follow suit. Zuko’s eyes fell closed and Sokka’s slid naturally shut in response, so that all he could feel was the pressure of Zuko all around his body and the slightest brush of Zuko’s nose against his own. Sokka inhaled; every cell in his body was eager to take whatever Zuko was about to give him.  
  
Except.  
  
Except when Sokka closed his eyes, he didn’t see Zuko. His vision was suddenly flooded by the image of a duckling, set against a cyan backsplash.  
  
And suddenly everything about this felt wrong.  
  
“Um,” Sokka squeaked. Zuko’s eyes flicked open, but he didn’t move away. Sokka sucked in a steadying breath, overwhelmed by how gorgeous Zuko looked like this and how much he hated what he was about to say.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Sokka whispered, and he meant it. Christ, how he meant it. “It’s just…there’s…there’s…someone.”  
  
For a moment, Zuko remained still, staring deep into Sokka’s eyes.  
  
Then, Sokka blinked and Zuko was gone. He’d forced his sweater out of Sokka’s grasp and shoved himself off of Sokka’s body, landing back out on the sidewalk. Without Zuko’s warm weight, Sokka’s chest suddenly felt cold as ice.  
  
_Shit. Fuck. Fucking shit,_ Sokka thought as Zuko rounded the back of the car to approach the driver’s side. _Why_ had he said something as stupid as _that?_ First of all, it was totally false. While Sokka may or may not have had some squishy feelings for the Blue Spirit, they definitely weren’t an item. It’s not like he would be _cheating_ if he went and kissed someone else. The Blue Spirit was, in all likelihood, kissing someone else in this very moment, a fact that Sokka wasn’t necessarily happy about but could accept all the same.  
  
Besides, what had just happened anyway? Sure, to Sokka it felt like they were about to share the most magical kiss of his lifetime, but was that just the alcohol talking? Zuko had tripped on top of him. He’d probably just been trying to clamber off of Sokka, and Sokka had hopelessly misread the situation. He suddenly felt a little sick to his stomach, thinking of all the awful comments he used to get in the high school locker room right after he’d come out, when his male peers had automatically assumed all he wanted to do was eye-fuck them while they were changing into their disgusting gym clothes. Did Zuko think that’s what Sokka was doing? Zuko had come out to Sokka, and now Sokka had assumed Zuko was trying to make some sort of move? Because if that was the case, then Zuko most certainly thought Sokka was an irredeemable dick now.  
  
Zuko wrenched open the driver’s side door, climbed into his seat, and slammed it shut. The sound was enough to jerk Sokka from his thoughts and jolt his body from its sideways position. He scrambled up into the seat and buckled his seatbelt, sending a wary glance Zuko’s way.  
  
Even through the coat, Sokka could tell that Zuko’s shoulders were totally tensed, and his spine was so straight that his back didn’t touch the seat. He wrapped his slim fingers around the black steering wheel and clenched, tight.  
  
_I should say something,_ Sokka thought. This was all just a big misunderstanding. He just needed to clear the air, and then everything could go back to how it was before.  
  
“You know, I’m bisexual,” Sokka heard himself say before his mouth had a chance to consult with his brain on their game plan. “So it’s like, totally cool that you’re gay and all.”  
  
_WHY WOULD YOU SAY **THAT**?_ Sokka’s brain screamed at his disobedient mouth. Of all the things to say, pulling the “I’m bi” card? _REALLY?_ Sokka really hated himself right now.  
  
Zuko seemed to share his feelings. He didn’t move, and his knuckles just grew whiter on the steering wheel. “Okay,” he said tersely.  
  
Sokka wanted to jump out of the passenger door and into oncoming traffic.  
  
“Where do you live?” Zuko ask sharply. Suddenly, Sokka remembered why he was here in the first place.  
  
“Right. Um.” Sokka told Zuko his address, and Zuko unglued a hand from his steering wheel to silently tap the words into his phone and affix it to his dashboard. Sokka tried and failed to ignore the flex of Zuko’s fingers as they wrapped around the gearshift and threw the car into reverse, or the white expanse of his outstretched neck as he twisted around to look out the back windshield. He pulled off into the street and began to drive without another word.  
  
Sokka clasped his hands in his lap and looked back and forth between the passenger window and his own fingers, only occasionally sparing a glance toward Zuko, who never stopped glaring straight forward. This wasn’t the sweet, comfortable silence from earlier. It was awkward, so painful it had Sokka searching for an eject button to shoot himself straight out of Zuko’s sun roof.  
  
Every few seconds, Sokka checked his phone to see if the Blue Spirit had messaged him, but no dice. When Sokka needed him most, he’d vanished.  
  
Sokka tried to talk through the silence, but none of his attempts at conversation were successful in baiting Zuko to look his way.  
  
“This car is really nice, is it new?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“So, do you live around here?”  
  
“Kind of.”  
  
“That place has great Thai food, you ever been?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
Sokka was running out of ideas, and they were only halfway there. Zuko made him feel tongue-tied and nervous, which was making it difficult to carry the conversation in the way that usually came so naturally to him. And they had absolutely nothing in common.  
  
Well – there was _one_ thing.  
  
Sokka sighed. He’d have to talk about the competition, wouldn’t he?  
  
“So messed up how the round went tonight,” Sokka said as they pulled up to a red light after another long stretch of silence.  
  
_Finally_ , Zuko had a reaction to Sokka’s words. It was like he suddenly deflated, slouching back against his seat and letting his head fall down with a sad sigh.  
  
“Yeah. It was really messed up.” Another pause, then a shake of his head. “Everything about it just feels so… _wrong_.”  
  
Sokka looked down again. Zuko was talking about _him_ , advancing in Aang’s place. And he couldn’t agree more. “Yeah. Everything about this is all wrong,” he muttered.  
  
Zuko looked at him sharply. “Sokka, no, I – I didn’t mean that _you_ – of course you deserve – well.” He clamped his mouth shut and turned back to face the road, accelerating now that the light had turned green again. “I just mean that it was wrong. What they did to Aang. They never should have put him in that position.”  
  
“That was really fucked, wasn’t it?”  
  
“Yeah, it was. It was disgusting. I feel…”  
  
“Ashamed?” Sokka supplied. It was the one emotion that felt hardest to shake.  
  
“Yeah. Ashamed,” Zuko agreed. “I should have just walked off the set right then and there. I wish I had. Instead, I just…went along with it. I feel awful.”  
  
“Hey, I was right there with you,” Sokka reminded him. “So if you’re awful, then I’m awful too.”  
  
Zuko’s eyes flicked over to him then, and Sokka thought he might have seen the very beginnings of a small smile. “You’re not awful,” Zuko told him. “You deserve to be in the final two.”  
  
Sokka was surprised at how much that meant to him coming from Zuko. He totally disagreed, though.  
  
“Nah, it should have been you and Aang,” Sokka said. “If the judging were fair, that’s what it would have been. _You_ deserve it.”  
  
Zuko smiled at him again, setting off a wave of butterflies in Sokka’s stomach. But all too soon, the smile was replaced with a veil of sadness. “You know why they did it, right?” he said softly to his windshield.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Why they broke Aang’s contract. Why they rigged the round.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Sokka said, and he really didn’t. Thus far he’d only seen the awful round as an act of pure cruelty; he’d spent no time contemplating what sort of strategy might have lain behind it.  
  
“It’s _us_ , Sokka,” Zuko said, furrowing his brow as he kept his gaze forward. “The rivals. The enemies. They wanted us together in the final round. Even if it meant it wouldn’t be a fair fight to get there.”  
  
Sokka stared at him in horror. Could that really be true? It seemed so horribly unfair, and yet what other explanation could there be?  
  
He slumped down in his seat. “Shit. I didn’t even think of that.”  
  
“You had no way of knowing,” Zuko assured him. “But, me, of all people…I should have seen this coming. I never should have agreed to do this show.”  
  
Sokka felt one of his eyebrows quirk up at that. “You of all people? What do you mean?”  
  
Zuko paused for a second, then shook his head. “I don’t know. Nothing.” He slowed the car down, bringing them to a gentle stop. “This is you, right?”  
  
Sokka looked out the window. It was indeed his house. He hadn’t even realized they were close.  
  
“Yeah, it is.”  
  
He looked back over at Zuko, who had that nervous expression on his face again, like he was building up the courage to say something.  
  
Sokka gave him a few seconds, but Zuko just stared wordlessly back at him.  
  
“Did you…want to come inside?” Sokka asked hesitantly. Then, suddenly hearing what that sounded like, he quickly added, “I could make you dinner, or something.”  
  
Zuko blinked. He glanced between Sokka and his house, and Sokka wondered if he was actually going to say yes.  
  
“…Thanks,” Zuko finally answered. “But…I…shouldn’t do that. I should not do that.”  
  
“You sure?” Sokka asked.  
  
“Yeah. I’m sure. Thank you, though.”  
  
They looked at each other for a few more moments. Sokka wasn’t sure if Zuko was really about to say something, or if Sokka was merely projecting his own hopes onto Zuko’s closed-off expression. Zuko’s mouth stayed shut.  
  
“Well…” Sokka said finally, “…thanks for the ride.”  
  
“Of course,” Zuko said.  
  
That was the end of it, then. Sokka unbuckled, checked his pockets for his phone and his wallet, and then grabbed the door handle. But he didn’t open it yet – not before greedily extracting a few more syllables from Zuko.  
  
“See you ‘round.”  
  
“Yeah, you too.”  
  
“Drive safe tonight.”  
  
“I will.”  
  
“Night.”  
  
“Night.”  
  
Sokka couldn’t think of anything more to say to that, so he reluctantly swung the door open and hopped out into his driveway. He shot Zuko one last look – which Zuko returned sadly – before shutting the door with a soft thud. Zuko’s car idled in the driveway as Sokka followed the path up to his door and fumbled with his keys. His fat fingers finally found the right one and separated it from the ring, pushing it into the lock and turning. He spun around to give Zuko one final wave goodbye, but as soon as his front door swung open, Zuko was pulling off into the road and driving away.  
  
It wasn’t until a half hour or so later that Sokka’s phone _finally_ lit up with a response to his message from earlier.  
  
  
**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_I turned on the news, but I didn’t see anything.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_Did you make it home okay?_

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _ya, i did  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _ended up having a super weird night_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_Bad weird?  
  
  
_Sokka thought about that. No, it hadn’t been bad, had it? A little awkward for sure, but not _bad_.  
  
For a second he considered telling the Blue Spirit everything that had happened with Zuko tonight. But truthfully, Sokka couldn’t even begin to explain everything that had gone down between them. Besides, he didn’t want the guy getting any ideas about Sokka being interested in anyone else.  
  


**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _no  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _idk  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _good weird, i think_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_:)  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**_Get some rest. Tomorrow will be a better day.  
  
_**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
**❤️

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
**❤️

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks so much for reading and commenting! I love that everyone is enjoying this AU as much as I am!


	8. Chapter 8

Sokka hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in a while.  
  
Okay, so it was mostly his own fault. It was just that every time he laid down to go to bed, he found himself unable to unglue his eyes from the constantly growing thread of DM’s living in his Twitter app. Every time he commanded himself to set his phone aside and get some shuteye, the Blue Spirit was back with another wry remark or piercing observation, and Sokka just _had_ to quip back, and then suddenly another two hours had passed and Sokka was still wide awake.   
  
They still talked about food, constantly. But there was _more_ to their conversations now. Sokka was learning more about the who the Blue Spirit actually _was_.  
  
Like how he always stayed up late into the night, but he was still up at the crack of dawn every single morning that followed. (“ _you’re going to die young if you keep that up_ ” “ _If you care so much, why don’t you stop talking my ear off when I should be sleeping?_ ” “ _oh REALLY? you’re telling me you want me to stop messaging you?_ ” “ _No. Please respond._ ”) Or how he had this one awful coworker who treated him like crap on an almost daily basis. (“ _Can you explain this to me?_ ” “ _it’s a meme to get you through that meeting you have today_ ” “ _How is this a meme? You just wrote the word “Zhao” on a picture of a rat._ ” “ _well that’s how i picture him_ ” “ _It does look a lot like him. Thank you._ ”) Or how his relationship with his family was…complicated. (“ _hey, just woke up and saw this. you were up at 4 am cooking? is everything okay?_ ” “ _Yeah, I’m fine. Just got in another fight with my sister last night. Needed to let off some steam._ ” “ _:/ can you please tell me your address so i can come beat her up? or at least drag her to therapy. anything i can do to help_ ” “ _Haha. It’s okay. Talking to you is help enough._ ”)   
  
There was even more than _that_ , too. Sokka was finding out that the two of them were alike in ways he never even imagined. Like the time the Blue Spirit asked Sokka about the steakhouse.  
  
  
  
 **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Where does the name “Kya’s” come from? I’ve always wondered.  
  
  
_

 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _that’s my mom’s name!_ _  
  
  
_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Oh. That’s nice.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Does she cook like you do?  
  
  
_

 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _she used to, yeah. she loved grilling (like me!)  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _she passed away when i was nine  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _car accident._

 **  
  
** **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Sokka. I’m so sorry.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I had no idea.  
  
  
_

 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _it's okay! of course you didn’t know  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i don’t mind talking about her. she was the best_

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Is that what you meant before? When you said something traumatic happened to you when you were a kid?  
  
_

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _oh, yeah  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i can’t believe you remembered that  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _yeah, that was a low point for me  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i kind of went off the rails for a while  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _stopped trying in school, got in a bunch of fights, etc  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _but cooking got me back on track!  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i always promised myself i’d name my first restaurant after her  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _so, yeah. that's where the name comes from_ _  
  
  
_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Oh. I see.  
  
  
_

 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _yeah  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _you know, i'm not really religious or anything  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _but i do like to imagine that she’s out there somewhere, watching over me  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _and that she’s proud of me  
  
  
_

 **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I’m sure she would be.  
  
  
_

 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** 🙂

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I grew up without my mom too.  
  
  
_

 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _really????? you never told me that!  
  
  
_

 **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Yeah.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _She walked out on our family when I was eleven.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I haven’t heard from her since then.  
  
  
_

 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _whoa.  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i'm so sorry. that's awful.  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _that must have been really hard for you._

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I understand why she did it. I really do.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _But even though I understand, it still hurts.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I just wish I knew something, you know?  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Anything.  
  
  
_

 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _that's totally reasonable  
  
  
_

 **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Sometimes I wish I could tell myself that she’s watching over me and that she’s proud of me, but the truth is I don’t even know if she’s alive or not.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _And if she is alive, that’s almost worse, because that would mean she could have reached out any time over the past decade and explained why she left. But she never did.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _She never made any effort to be a part of my life.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _So, yeah. It was hard. It still is.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Wow, okay, I’m sorry.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _That got kind of dark.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I have this bad habit of oversharing sometimes.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Sorry about that.  
  
  
_

 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _dude.  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _you literally NEVER have to apologize for that  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i want to hear it all, dark or not  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _and side note. no matter where she is right now, your mom would have to be crazy to not be proud of you._ ❤️️

  
  
  
So. Yeah. Stuff like that.  
  
The whole situation was uncharted territory for Sokka. Talking to the Blue Spirit was like getting to know someone from the inside out. Sokka felt like he really _understood_ the guy on his deepest levels: what he loved, what he hated, who he had nightmares about, who he dreamed about becoming. But on the other hand, there was so much Sokka just didn’t know. The guy was careful, always, to avoid revealing any information that might be used to identify him. Sokka didn’t know what he looked like, or what his mysterious corporate job was, or even his real name. He never pushed, of course – if the guy wasn’t comfortable sharing, that was something Sokka could live with. That’s what he told himself, at least, as he scrolled through their old messages, hoping the hundredth reread would reveal some clue Sokka had missed the other ninety-nine times. But it never did, and living with it got just that much harder.  
  
There was just one time the Blue Spirit slipped up.  
  
It had been a few days after Round Two. He’d sent Sokka a picture of the dish he was working on, as the two had gotten in the habit of doing anytime they cooked. Sokka had been studying the prawns the Blue Spirit was prepping for a tempura appetizer – flawlessly deveined and deshelled, of course – when his eye had caught on something else. There, down in the bottom corner, splayed out on the white marble countertop and surrounded by discarded shells, was a hand.  
  
 _His_ hand.  
  
Sokka had jolted out of his seat and immediately zoomed in on it. It was pale, slim, relaxed, with prominent veins and close-trimmed nails and long, elegant fingers. A lot of things made a lot more sense, then, because it was the kind of hand that was perfect for all of the up-close detailing work that the Blue Spirit was so good at. It was the hand of someone born to be a chef, Sokka thought instantly.  
  
Another thought followed quickly after that one, one that Sokka instantly chided himself for having but that he hid away for guilty safekeeping all the same: _It’s beautiful.  
  
_ Finally, Sokka had a piece of him. It was still almost nothing, but it _wasn’t_ anymore. It was a hand. Sokka stored the picture in his camera roll and came back to it during late nights, zooming in, rotating it, wondering if he’d notice something new this time that he hadn’t every other time he’d looked. He thought about what that hand might be capable of if he ever got to meet the Blue Spirit for real. He wondered what kind of person a hand like that could be attached to. It had to be someone just as beautiful, Sokka knew. And every night, when he told the Blue Spirit goodnight and closed his eyes for good, he envisioned it: the faceless phantom of a strong, graceful man with two hands talented enough to do whatever they wanted to Sokka, their willing lump of dough ready to be molded into whatever shape was their favorite. He wanted to meet that person. He wanted to feel those hands.  
  
Sokka was teetering on the edge of a cliff, he knew. Whatever this _thing_ was with the Blue Spirit, it was becoming more and more serious by the day, and Sokka was becoming more and more concerned about his ability to be okay with things staying the way they were. He knew in his heart that he was nearing a crucial juncture. He could let this go and walk away, leaving behind the delusional fantasy of ever having _something_ with whoever was on the other side of his phone screen.  
  
Or, he could take the leap. He could ask for _more_.  
  
Whatever that might be.  
  
And suffice to say, none of this thinking was helping his sleep deprivation.

* * *

(And there was one more thing ruining Sokka’s nights.  
  
In the earliest hours of the morning, as Sokka floated across the liminal space between consciousness and oblivion, one more thought always seemed to work its way into his almost-dreams: Zuko.  
  
Sensations like the weight of Zuko’s body, the scent of his skin, and the low rasp of his voice immersed Sokka in a warm bath and then plunged him down, down, down into Zuko’s depths where Sokka should have drowned but where he found he could breathe just fine. These weren’t fantasies so much as they were _memories_ , replaying slow and distorted, leaving Sokka with an overwhelming sense of yearning he couldn’t begin to map. Every tiny recollected detail about Zuko felt impossibly big and incomprehensibly important, so Sokka’s brain carved each word into stone, going over every line again and again to make sure the engraving of Zuko’s everything would be perfectly preserved in perpetuity. Sokka wasn’t sure who would ever see it.  
  
Dreaming about Zuko was ridiculous. Sokka knew this.  
  
So with each morning’s alarm, he lied to himself, promising himself that he was mistaken, swearing to himself there was no way Zuko had found a home in Sokka’s skull, assuring himself he wasn’t the one who’d invited Zuko to stay there for good. He lied and lied and lied until it almost felt true.  
  
Almost.)

* * *

“How many ounces of mascarpone does it take to make a batch of tiramisu?”  
  
“Sixteen.”  
  
“That’s right! Okay, umm…If I were making a peach cobbler, what temperature should I preheat the oven to?”  
  
“425 degrees. Come on, can you give me a hard one?”  
  
Katara shot him a glare. “These are _your_ flashcards,” she pointed out. “Instead of complaining about my questions, maybe you should be thanking me for helping you in the first place.”   
  
“I know, I know, I’m sorry, I’m being a dick. I appreciate your help, I really do,” Sokka corrected himself quickly before dropping his face into his hands with a sigh. He had two weeks to go until Round Three, with about half of his prep time under his belt already, and there was still _so_ much more practice he needed to do. Sokka had always known the dessert round would be the most difficult for him if he made it that far – his specialty was meat, after all, and that was pretty hard to incorporate into your standard dessert – but the jarring end to Round Two was making his studying even more difficult. Sokka felt trapped between the desire to come in first in the competition and the guilt of going through with the rest of the show at all after what the Network had done to Aang. But what choice did he have? He’d signed a contract. If he backed out now, that would be the end of his career.  
  
In a state of crisis, he’d invited Katara over to help him, promising dinner and endless gratitude in exchange for her help and her calming presence. Now the two of them were in the kitchen, surrounded by cooking food and endless stacks of tabbed, color-coded flashcards.  
  
“You need to relax,” Katara said. Her voice had lost its edge, so the words felt more comforting than snarky now. “Clearly you’re way too in your head right now. Do you think maybe the reason all of my questions seem too easy is that you’re actually ready for this?”  
  
“My Round Two performance is proof that isn’t true,” Sokka told her, cringing as he thought back to the judges’ comments and the way the world had seemed to disappear around him the moment he was certain he was going to be eliminated. That goddamned _sauce_. He’d never live it down.  
  
“If you say so…” Katara said dubiously. She settled down into her barstool and waved the stack in her hand questioningly. “So, should I keep going?”  
  
“Yes, please.”  
  
Katara sighed. “Okay. How long should you beat the eggs for a pav – pavlova? Is that how you say that?”  
  
“Eight minutes.”  
  
“Yes! Alright, for a pumpkin pie – ”  
  
“Oh – hang on.”  
  
Sokka’s phone screen had lit up, and he dove across the counter for it. He was thrilled to see the notification was from exactly who he’d hoped.  
  
  
  
 **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Hey, you.  
  
  
  
_ Sokka grinned, then looked back up at Katara. “Okay, let’s take a break.”  
  
She lowered the stack of cards. “Seriously?” she said, voice high-pitched with exasperation.  
  
“Yeah. Shoo,” he told her, snatching the cards from her hands and tossing them onto the counter. “We can do some more later.”  
  
Katara’s eyes narrowed. “Who texted you?”  
  
“Nobody!” Sokka said quickly. Katara still didn’t know about his _thing_ with the Blue Spirit. There was no reason for her to know; their _thing_ was really barely even a _thing_ at all. Besides, it was all way too complicated and, quite frankly, embarrassing to explain to Katara at this point. What would he even tell her? “ _For weeks I’ve been semi-flirting with someone who won’t even tell me his name_ ”? “ _I may not know what he looks like, but he loves ducklings and he’s got at least one good hand_?” It sounded ridiculous even in his head. If anything ever actually came of this… _thing_ …then Sokka would fill her in. Until that unlikely outcome became a reality, it would just be Sokka’s little secret. “I just need to…um…check on something.”  
  
“Uh huh.” Katara studied him, no longer annoyed so much as intrigued. “Sokka, are you…seeing someone?”  
  
“What? No!” Sokka said, mortified at the question and the high pitch of his voice in his answer. “No way. You know I don’t have time for that.”  
  
“Uh _huh_.” Katara said again. “But if there was _someone_ …you’d tell me, right?”  
  
“Of course if there was _someone_ , I would tell you, but there’s _no one_ , so please leave,” Sokka said, giving her a light shove to get her out of his kitchen before he cracked under the pressure and spilled everything.  
  
“ _Sure_.” Katara’s voice was smug, but she allowed herself be pushed off the barstool. She made her way out into the living room, where Sokka could hear snippets of _The Real Housewives of Orange County_ playing on TV.  
  
With Katara out of the way, Sokka focused his attention back on his phone.  
  
  
  


 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _hey yourself!  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _it's late, i was starting to get worried about you!_

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Haha. I’m sorry.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _There was construction on the way home.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Had to take a new route.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Got lost.  
  
  
_

 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _wow  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _that's really embarrassing for you  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _you know, i heard they just came out with this new thing  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _it’s called google maps  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _you should try it sometime  
  
  
_

 **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Okay.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I’m blocking you.  
  
  
_

 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _NO_

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _:)  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Okay, show me what you’re making._ _  
  
  
  
_ Sokka moved around the kitchen, snapping pictures of the meat, the handmade, uncooked pasta, and the vegetables he was working on.  
  
  
  


 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _Attachment_ _📎  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _Attachment_ _📎  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _Attachment_ _📎_ _  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _and the broccolini are already in the oven, so you don’t get a pic of those._

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Come on, you can’t pull them out for one second and show me?  
  
  
_

 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _no can do  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _then i'd have to do the math all over again to figure out how long to leave them in for  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _and take into account all that heat i'd lose by opening the oven  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _and even then, they probably wouldn’t turn out as good cause i interrupted their roasting_ _  
  
  
_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _You’re good at math. I think they’d be fine.  
  
  
_

 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _or i could just leave them in and save myself the trouble  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _and you could hold your horses until they’re done  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _think you can handle that?_ _  
  
  
_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _It’s going to be hard. But I’ll try to be patient for just a little longer.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I just thought that after my nightmarish drive home, you might be willing to comfort me with a picture of some broccolini.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Clearly, I was wrong.  
  
  
_

 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _you're the worst.  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _Attachment_ _📎_

  
  
  
Sokka shut the oven door defeatedly. It was fine. He’d do the math again. It wasn’t a big deal.  
  
His heart swelled a little, as it always did, as the Blue Spirit responded with glowing compliments of the texture of his sundried tomatoes and the consistency of his sauce. It always felt especially good coming from him, because unlike most consumers of Sokka’s cooking, he actually knew what he was talking about. While an uneducated non-chef might just tell him the food looked good, the Blue Spirit knew the complicated techniques that went into perfecting each part of the dish, and his keen eye caught things that most wouldn’t. It felt nice to have someone notice the new technique he’d used to slice his bucatini or the perfect, hard-won complexion he’d managed to attain for his guanciale. It felt even better to have someone like them.  
  
Sokka was picking out some emojis to respond with when the Blue Spirit sent a follow-up.  
  
  
  
 **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _You’re making a lot of food tonight.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Are you cooking for someone special?  
  
  
  
_ Sokka squinted at the question. Like every other time he’d received one of these cryptic messages from the Blue Spirit, his brain automatically went into overdrive, reading every possible layer of subtext that it could conceive of into his words. What did that _mean_? “ _Someone special_ …” Was he really asking what Sokka thought he was asking? Did he care whether or not Sokka had… _someone_? That idea made Sokka’s heart begin to beat just a little quicker against his ribcage.  
  
He stared at the words for a few seconds before slowly typing a response.  
  
  
  


**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i think katara would object to me saying she’s not special, but no. just the two of us tonight  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _there’s no “special someone” in my life right now, sadly  
  
_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Oh.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Really?  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I thought there was someone.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I think I read that somewhere.  
  
  
  
_ Sokka stared at the message in horror for only a moment before beginning to type furiously.

 **  
  
  
@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _where did you read that???  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _tmz????????  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _they're always making shit up about me  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _or was it that buzzfeed article?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _“ten pictures that prove chef sokka and chef ty lee are in a secret relationship”?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _jesus, that stuff gets so annoying  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _and then there are the people who “ship” me and aang  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _drives me crazy. like, don't you have something better to do??????_

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Wow.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Yeah, I could see how that would be annoying.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _And it would probably be weird dating another chef.  
  
  
_

 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _oh  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _honestly? no, i don’t think it would be  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i think it would be really nice, actually  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _like, being with someone who really gets it, you know?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i would love that  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _but, to answer your question from before, no.  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _there isn’t anyone._

  
  
Sokka anxiously combed his hair from his face. Leave it to the media to ruin everything, as it always did. He hoped his denial wasn’t coming too late after the Blue Spirit had already written him off as “taken.”  
  
As usual, Sokka got a reply right away.  
  
  
  
 **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Got it.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _:)  
  
  
  
_ A smiley face? Sokka stared at it like he was worried it was going to grow fangs. That – that was a good sign, right? You wouldn’t smile at the fact that someone was single unless you wanted to…change that…right?  
  
 _Right?  
  
_ Sokka was having that feeling again – like he was toeing the edge of a cliff, looking down toward jutting rocks and a vast, deep ocean. He could do it, if he wanted to. He could make the leap.  
  
Instead, he inched just one step closer.  
  
  
  


 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _what about you? anyone special in your life?_

  
  
  
The Blue Spirit had been responding quickly before, but now there was a lull as Sokka waited for his response. One housewife was calling another a “stupid bitch” on the TV in the room over, and Sokka wondered if he might be equally deserving of the title. Had he run right into another one of the guy’s invisible electric fences? Sokka could never predict which questions would garner easier answers and which ones would elicit silence and deflection. They’d never really talked about dating before – did that cross a line? Had he pried too far into the guy’s personal life?  
  
Or worse, had Sokka come across as too… _eager_?  
  
He was readying his thumbs to send a follow-up, taking it all back, when the next message appeared.  
  
  
  
 **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _No. There’s no one.  
  
  
  
_ _What about me?_ was Sokka’s automatic first thought, and he wanted to gag. What was he, a middle schooler playing twenty questions?  
  
He focused on the more important information there: The Blue Spirit was single.  
  
And Sokka kind of wanted to change that.  
  
It was embarrassing, but it was the truth. There was no use denying it to himself anymore: the feelings he had for the Blue Spirit were something beyond mere friendship. They went _deeper_ than that. Just how much deeper was a dive Sokka hadn’t yet allowed himself to take.  
  
Sokka stared down the cliffside again. The depths stared back.  
  
He could do it. It would take nothing at all to type out a quick message, something flirty and cute, innocent enough to be forgotten if the guy wasn’t interested but explicit enough to make Sokka’s intentions clear in case he _was_. Sokka could use his words and actually ask for what he wanted. He could do it.  
  
But that was a conversation best had in person, Sokka thought as he stared at the screen.  
  
 _In person_.  
  
That seed of a thought buried itself in Sokka’s brain and sprouted roots before he could stop it. Oh. _In person_. That was it, wasn’t it? That was the thing standing in the way of Sokka and those deep blue waters below him. He needed to meet the Blue Spirit in person. He needed that now, suddenly, more than he needed anything else in the whole world.   
  
Without another thought, Sokka dropped his phone and grappled for the notebook he kept next to the stove. It was well-worn and battered, one of hundreds just like it that would be stowed away and replaced as soon as its pages were full. He flipped back a few pages, landing on one that was dog-eared and wrinkled from the amount of times he’d come back to stare at the words he’d scribbled down there. At the top of the page was the title, underlined and circled, dented into the pages that followed from the number of times he’d retraced its letters.  
  
 _His Favorite Food.  
  
_ Okay. Okay. Sokka had a plan.

* * *

Sokka took a break from practicing.  
  
It was like Katara had said, right? He was too in his head about all this. If he spent every hour studying dessert recipes, he’d be exhausted by the time Round Three rolled around. And besides, he had to have faith in his own abilities. He’d made it this far because of a long career of hard work, not because of a few hours of reading. No matter what, Sokka would always have his skills to fall back on. There was no way spending every waking moment making flashcards would make a difference in the quality of the food he could put out.  
  
That’s what Sokka told himself, at least.  
  
In reality, he’d been unavoidably consumed by a different, much more addictive project: perfecting the art of takoyaki.  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook’s favorite food was essentially a battered and fried ball of octopus, mixed with various vegetables and drizzled in sauce. Sokka had studied the dish before and knew that it was really a snack more than it was an actual meal; it was a street food typically sold from food stands, served in a paper carton or even skewered on a stick. He’d had tasted it a few times, but never attempted to make it himself.  
  
Now, instead of spending the mornings on his laptop scouring the internet for the latest recipes, Sokka was spending them at the steakhouse. The massive, empty, industrial kitchen there was his favorite place in the world to make food. The place didn’t take customers until lunchtime, so before eleven the building was blessedly locked and closed to the public. It was there, in the peace and quiet of the breakfast hours, that Sokka had crafted every recipe for each of his cookbooks, and it was there that he sunk his teeth into this one as well.  
  
He’d started by taking a few hours just to read over the recipe as the Blue Spirit had messaged it to him, that day he’d casually mentioned the snack was his favorite and Sokka had bullheadedly pried for as much information as the Blue Spirit was willing to give. Unsurprisingly, the instructions read less like a recipe and more like a dense eighteenth-century poem some English teacher had asked Sokka to analyze. What was he supposed to make of directions like “sprinkle on half-a-handful of seaweed flakes” or “flip the balls only when you sense they’re sturdy enough”? Sokka sometimes questioned whether the Blue Spirit owned a single measuring cup, or whether he was being held captive in a kitchen that was equipped with the highest grade of cooking technology but devoid of essentials like measuring spoons or clocks.  
  
Eventually there was nothing to be done but to attempt to make it himself. Sokka ordered the special semi-circle filled pan, a corresponding oil brush, and a takoyaki pick online. While he waited for those to arrive, he slipped over to his favorite Japanese market to pick up the few ingredients the steakhouse didn’t already have in bulk, things like dashi stock, red pickled ginger, and okonomiyaki sauce. The day he had all his purchases in place, he woke early to head to the fish market down by the marina and pick out a bunch of cuts of octopus – he knew his own obsessive cooking habits well enough to know that none of the fish would go to waste. And once he had everything together, he got cooking.  
  
His first attempt sucked, as did his second. By his third attempt he was finally starting to get the hang of the process, and by the fourth he actually produced what could be considered an actual _ball_. It was only around the sixth batch that Sokka began to feel confident to add a few of his own touches, like mixing a little ponzu into the sauce before drizzling it onto the finished product or adding some shredded cabbage to the ball’s center along with the octopus itself. All the while, he kept track of his results, recording each measurement of ingredient and time in his notebook.  
  
By about his thirtieth attempt, Sokka had something worthy of being served in his restaurant.  
  
By his fiftieth, he had something worthy of the Blue Spirit.  
  
Sokka finished the ball with a second bite, heart thumping as he went over every aspect of the recipe in his head. The softness in the middle was perfectly offset by the texture of the outer crunch, and the blend of the sweet sauce with the savory octopus felt absolutely seamless. Each small decision he’d made in the pages and pages of failures along the way had led to something close to perfect.  
  
Sokka thought the Blue Spirit would like it.  
  
He took a step back from the counter of the empty restaurant kitchen and closed his eyes, breathing deep. Was he really going to do this?  
  
Sokka had that funny feeling in his stomach again, like he was readying himself to take the plunge, as if he’d ever had a choice in the matter besides the question of _when_. He could see himself there now, standing just on the precipice, teetering so close to the edge that the smallest gust of wind might tip him over. And down below was the ocean, blue and big and welcoming, just waiting to swallow him whole.  
  
Sokka wanted to know what swimming felt like.  
  
He picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found Haru. Sokka tapped the name of his restaurant manager and then held the phone to his ear as he waited for the call to connect.  
  
“ _Sokka?_ ”  
  
“Hey, man! Are you busy right now?”  
  
“ _Only a little! What do you need?”  
  
_ Sokka took a deep breath.  
  
Braced himself.  
  
And _jumped_.

* * *

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _Attachment_ _📎_

 **  
  
** **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Good morning to you, too.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _What am I looking at?_

 **  
  
@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _the new menus  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _for kya’s  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _we just got them printed  
  
  
_

 **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Seriously?  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _That’s for the steakhouse?  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _You added takoyaki to the menu?  
  
  
_

 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _yup!_

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Wow!  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _You know that’s my favorite, right?  
  
_

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _of course i know that, silly  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _that's why i added it  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _it's your recipe, too  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i did make a few tweaks though  
  
_

**@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _You didn’t follow my recipe?  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I thought that was the most disrespectful thing a person could do to a chef, or something._

**  
  
@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _very funny!  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _look, i still think there’s something to be said for having faith in recipes  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _and trusting the chefs who’ve cooked before you  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _and obviously you’re a brilliant chef and i trust YOU  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _but i just wanted to show you that i've been listening to you  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _and that i'm willing to try things your way  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _so yeah, i made a few changes  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _hopefully for the better_ 😊

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Sokka.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I’m so happy to hear that.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _This is such a great surprise to wake up to.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I’m so, so honored that you thought it was worth making.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Let alone worth adding to your menu.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I really don’t know what to say._

**  
  
@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _say you’ll come try it._

**  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _What do you mean?_

**  
  
@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _come to the steakhouse this saturday and try it yourself  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _don't worry about getting a reservation  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _all you’d have to do is show up and ask for me  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i'm gonna be running the kitchen all day  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _so anytime that works for you would be fine  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _just show up and i'll make you a plate myself  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _what do you say?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _come on, i know you’re reading these, please respond  
_ **  
@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _look, i know stuff is really crazy for you at work right now  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i know you’re insanely busy  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i know it’s a lot to ask  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _but i really think it would be worth it.  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _please?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _for me.  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _or at least for my amazing cooking_

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I don’t know.  
  
  
_

 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _please!  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i want to meet you, man  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i want that so bad  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _messaging you is great, but i want to meet you  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _in person  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i want to know you in real life  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _and i'm sorry if that’s too forward but it’s the truth  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _tell me you don’t want that too._

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I do want that.  
  
_

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _good!  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _so, you’ll come?_

**  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I’m not sure.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Like you said, things are really busy at work right now.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I don’t know if I’ll be able to get out of the office._ _  
  
_

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _okay.  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i understand._

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _But let me see if I can move some things around.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _And then hopefully I’ll be able to make it.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I’m going to do my best.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I really want to try your dish.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _And meet you.  
  
_

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _YAYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _okay, i'll take it!  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i'm so excited  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i have a really good feeling about this  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i think the stars are going to align and everything is gonna work out  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _at least, i hope so  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _you know?_

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Yeah.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I hope so, too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NOTE: I'M POSTING CHAPTER 9 RIGHT AFTER THIS ONE! If you don't see the "next chapter" button, try refreshing or waiting a few minutes!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure you've read chapter 8 before you read this one!

Sokka hadn’t heard from him all day.  
  
That wasn’t _too_ unusual. There had been days like this before, when work was putting a lot on his plate or when he had family stuff going on. The silence never meant anything more than that. Sokka did his best not to read too much into the timing of this silence in particular.  
  
 _He’ll be here_. That’s what Sokka kept telling himself, over and over as the seconds passed by with no word.  
  
 _He’ll be here. He’ll be here. He **will.  
  
**_ Waiting around for the universe to bend to his will was miserable and pointless, he knew. So, Sokka did his best to keep his phone in his pocket and focus on the food. Both luckily and unluckily for him, the steakhouse was staffed with a fantastic team of chefs who could run the place with virtually no supervision whatsoever. He wished there was some incompetence he could fix, some dramatic catastrophe that could fill his mind and his hands as he waited, but the kitchen conveyor belt was running frustratingly smoothly. All Sokka could do was check each dish, make only the tiniest adjustments to its garnish or its plating, and approve it for serving. In between plates, he battled his own hands as they fought to pull out his phone and check his notifications. He won most of the time.  
  
Around eight in the evening, Sokka was in the middle of redoing a splash of chimichurri on a plate of top sirloin when Haru burst into the kitchen, flushed and breathless.  
  
The spoon Sokka was holding clattered to the counter as he leapt up. Was it – ? It had to be, right? What else would his restaurant manager be so worked up about? “Haru – ”  
  
“Sokka,” he managed between pants. “You – you need to get out here.”  
  
Sokka drew in a sharp breath, barely daring to hope that this was the news he’d been waiting for. He steadied himself by focusing on the sloppy mess of sauce he’d created on the plate when he’d dropped his spoon in surprise. The dish would need to be redone.  
  
When he felt like he could respond without his voice shaking, he spoke. “Is it…?”  
  
Haru only knew as much as he needed to – Sokka was expecting someone. He didn’t know how unexpectedly important meeting that _someone_ was to Sokka, or how hard Sokka’s heart was beginning to thump as he realized that this could finally be the moment that everything finally came together. Those were things Sokka kept for himself. He braced himself for Haru’s answer, preparing to be okay with whatever came out of his mouth.  
  
“No. It’s not.”  
  
Instantly, Sokka felt himself grow heavy with disappointment and then hot with anger. Haru was shaking his head and saying something like “I’m sorry, Sokka” but Sokka couldn’t hear him. Of course, deep down, he knew this wasn’t Haru’s fault; it was his own, for letting himself get so invested in such a ridiculous dream in the first place. But despite that, Sokka couldn’t stop himself from immediately shooting a scowl at Haru across the dead-silent kitchen. If it wasn’t the Blue Spirit, then why was Haru bothering Sokka with it?  
  
“What is it, then?” he asked, unable to stop the hardness from creeping into the question.  
  
“It’s – ” Haru tried, then gasped for another breath, leaning over to brace himself on his knees.  
  
“Well?”  
  
“It’s _Zuko_.”  
  
Sokka’s heart stopped.  
  
 _Zuko?  
  
_ Everything came flooding back, then, so forcefully that Sokka felt like he’d been slapped right across the face. Every late-night remembrance of Zuko’s body pressed against his own, of his lips hovering so close to Sokka’s they could have been kissing, of the tiny smile Zuko had given him when it was just the two of them alone in his car – it all came flashing back across Sokka’s field of vision in blinding color and overwhelming vividity. Sokka felt with full force every wave of anxiety and anticipation that he’d tried to repress these past few weeks at the thought of Zuko. Those feelings had never really been under his control at all, he realized. They’d retreated from him like the tide before a tsunami, but now he saw the wall of water before him, ready to destroy everything in its path.  
  
Zuko was _here_. At Sokka’s steakhouse.  
  
There was a fleeting moment where that thought made Sokka feel… _excited_.  
  
But the next second, he came crashing back to reality.   
  
_No, no, **no**._ This could not be happening. Not tonight. Not on the night when Sokka was supposed to be making his move and convincing the Blue Spirit to invest in something more with him. He needed to be at the top of his game – he couldn’t be distracted by Zuko’s handsome eyes or his low voice or the cryptic way he strung his sentences together like he was just begging Sokka to crack his code. The confusion his presence brought was too much for Sokka to handle on top of everything else.  
  
And why was Zuko here, anyway? It’s not like he’d ever shown an interest in Sokka’s life before. Sokka thought he knew Zuko well enough at this point to assume that Zuko wouldn’t have come just intimidate or sabotage him in light of the upcoming competition. In all their interactions – their real, off-camera interactions – Zuko had seemed respectful, courteous, even a little shy. Sokka might have thought differently a month ago, but now he felt pretty confident that Zuko wasn’t actively out to get him.  
  
So if that wasn’t it, what was it? Had Zuko just randomly picked tonight of all nights to have an appetite for steak?  
  
Or an appetite for Sokka?  
  
Sokka shook the thought from his head. He glanced around the kitchen, where the staff was frozen in place, waiting to see what he was going to say. Filling his lungs with another deep breath, he built his composure back up again. No matter how fiercely this tornado of feelings was raging in his chest, he couldn’t risk letting it loose on his chefs. They didn’t deserve that.  
  
“Okay. I’ll handle this,” he said tersely.  
  
Sokka pushed past Haru, through the double-doors that lead out to the main floor of the restaurant. As was typical for a Saturday night, the tables were packed with loud, buzzed patrons, and it was a little difficult for Sokka to weave his way between the servers and the customers crowding the floor. There were a few glances in Sokka’s direction – those in the know did recognize him as the founder of the steakhouse, after all – but he ignored them. He didn’t have time to check in on the crowd and take pictures with his fans tonight. He had to deal with Zuko before the Blue Spirit showed up.  
  
There were so many people that Sokka didn’t even spot Zuko until Sokka was mere feet away from him, by the hostess’s stand, in the restaurant’s foyer.  
  
And then there he was.  
  
Zuko was looking visibly uncomfortable and sorely out of place in a light grey sport coat and matching slacks, hands shoved in his pockets as he glanced anxiously around the restaurant. Clearly, Zuko hadn’t realized that the standard dress code for the steakhouse typically involved sandals and shorts, although Sokka suspected that wearing a dress shirt without a tie was probably the equivalent of going barefoot for Zuko. Even nervous and fidgety as he seemed, Zuko was still devastatingly handsome; when he finally met Sokka’s gaze with a terrified look, those golden eyes nearly stopped Sokka in his tracks.  
  
Sokka didn’t let them, though. He forced his feet to march right up to where Zuko was standing and planted himself in front of him. Up close, Zuko’s agitation was even more evident. He stared at Sokka with wide eyes, looking skittish as a stray dog.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Sokka whispered loudly.  
  
Sokka wasn’t _mad_ at Zuko. He wasn’t even upset with him, really. But the stress of making sure everything was perfect for the Blue Spirit was dulling Sokka’s usual tact and making his words come out harsh and jagged. He regretted his poor choice of tone the second the words left his mouth and immediately caused Zuko’s expression to contort into something much more hurt. Seeing Zuko make a face like that was as painful as touching an open flame, and Sokka jerked away reflexively.  
  
“Sorry, sorry,” Sokka said hastily, rubbing his hands over his eyes as if to reset his expression. “That came out wrong. It really is good to see you.” On any other occasion, he really would have meant it – like it or not, he’d been subconsciously yearning to see Zuko again ever since Zuko had driven him home, then turned down his invitation to come inside. But tonight was different. “I’m just…surprised, is all.”   
  
“I know, it’s okay,” Zuko said quickly, and Sokka’s skull quickly emptied of every piece of vocabulary except a singular _fuck_ , because hearing Zuko’s voice again sent something warm aflutter deep in Sokka’s stomach. He’d recreated that voice so many times in his head since he’d heard it last that he thought he knew it by heart, but his imagination was nothing compared to the real thing.  
  
As Sokka felt his face grow flushed, Zuko’s was rearranging itself into something more determined. He opened his mouth, and Sokka leaned in just a little more to hear what the hell was about to come out from between those lips.  
  
“Sokka – ”  
  
Before Sokka had time to process the difference in heartrate that hearing his name in Zuko’s voice brought on, the door to the steakhouse opened. Sokka whipped his head around automatically to see who’d come in – could it be…?  
  
In stepped an older man, maybe in his mid-forties. Sokka paid his face only a split-second of attention before casting his gaze down toward the man’s hands. They were big and thick, with just the slightest bit of hair where the hand met the wrist. Sokka shook his head – it wasn’t him.  
  
He focused his eyes back on Zuko, who was biting his lip now that he’d lost Sokka’s attention.  
  
“Sorry,” Sokka said again, taking another small step closer. “I’m just kind of – distracted, right now. What were you going to say?”  
  
Zuko swallowed, and the muscles of his throat rippled visibly in a way Sokka couldn’t help but stare at. “Sokka – ” he began again.  
  
The door opened again and another customer walked in – this time, a younger guy who seemed to fit the right age range. Sokka looked at his hands; the nails were long and painted. That wasn’t him either.  
  
Before Sokka could drag his eyes back over to Zuko, he felt a hand grab his wrist. Zuko’s grip on him was surprisingly tentative, but firm enough that Sokka felt as if he’d been yanked right back into Zuko’s SUV, that tiny little alternate universe where only the two of them existed.  
  
Zuko’s eyes were tinged now with just a hint of desperation, and Sokka’s heart pounded at the sight of it. “Yes?” he asked. What the hell was Zuko so worked up about?  
  
“Is there…somewhere we can talk? Alone?”  
  
As quickly as Sokka had entered their orbit, he fell from it, crashing back into the crowded foyer where the two of them were mere feet from dozens of interested ears listening in on their conversation with varying levels of subtlety. No doubt anyone with internet access knew the two chefs and would be keen to learn the contents of their hushed conversation.  
  
Sokka attempted to drown out the patrons in favor of studying Zuko’s face, trying to guess at what Zuko needed to talk to him about so urgently. Was it about the competition? Something about Aang? Or maybe something about that car ride home? Sokka seriously didn’t have a clue.  
  
“I…” Sokka started. He was dying to know what Zuko wanted, but terrified of getting pulled into some long conversation and being unavailable if the Blue Spirit ever actually arrived.  
  
“I’m sorry, I just – ” (Another customer – a young woman with green acrylic nails. It wasn’t him.) “This is just really bad timing for me.” (Another – an older couple with their hands laced together. Not him.) “Is there any chance we could talk another time?”  
  
“No, we can’t,” Zuko insisted. He looked more resolute now, and his fingers around Sokka’s wrist grew even tighter. “There’s – there’s something I have to tell you.”   
  
Sokka stared at him. “You – ”  
  
(Another – an older woman with short fingers. Not him.)  
  
“Please, Sokka, if we could just – ”  
  
(Another – a young guy with tattoos on his hands. Not him.)  
  
“Okay, just, hang on one sec – ”  
  
(Another – a woman with knuckles laced with rings. Not him.)  
  
“ _Sokka_ , he’s not going to – ”  
  
Sokka didn’t have a second to process the words before his brain was filled with another sound:  
  
 _Click_.  
  
Sokka and Zuko simultaneously turned toward the source of the unmistakable sound of a camera. A middle-aged woman sitting at the corner table was lowering her cell phone guiltily, now that the subjects of her photography had detected her. One of Sokka’s servers was already running over to the table to admonish the woman, but apparently the damage had been done.  
  
Sokka turned back to face Zuko and caught the end of his reaction. Zuko’s eyes had gone wide and his mouth had fallen just barely open, looking astonished and appalled that someone had dared snap a picture of one of the most famous chefs of their generation. But as he turned back to face Sokka, his eyes narrowed and his mouth stitched shut again, his expression was harder. Sokka thought it looked more like…acceptance.  
  
Zuko dropped Sokka’s wrist and took a step away, taking in a shaky breath and turning his head. “This was a mistake,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.  
  
Sokka acted without thinking; he felt his body chase after Zuko before he could help himself, and he grabbed hold of Zuko’s wrist before he could get too far away.  
  
“Wait. Please,” Sokka begged him, using his grip on Zuko’s arm to drag himself back into Zuko’s personal space. “I’m sorry. What was it you wanted to tell me?”  
  
Zuko shot Sokka one last stare, and Sokka thought he might say something, but –  
  
“Forget it,” Zuko whispered. He yanked his wrist away and turned to leave.  
  
“Zuko!” Sokka shouted exasperatedly after him. How had he managed to fuck this up so badly? His emotions had gotten the better of him, like they always did when Zuko was around. Sokka just needed to _explain_ that to him and then everything would be fine. “ _Zuko!_ ”  
  
But Zuko never turned around. He slipped out the door and was gone.  
  
Sokka was left standing alone, in the middle of the crowded foyer, confused by what had just happened and why it felt like someone had just taken a meat grinder to his lungs.  
  
For a few moments Sokka just stood there, trying to recuperate, trying to catch his goddamn _breath_. He didn’t understand what had just happened. He thought things might have changed, but he was starting to realize that no matter what had happened between them before, he had probably never truly understood anything about Zuko at all. And if Sokka kept acting like a jerk every time he saw Zuko, he probably never would.  
  
But it didn’t matter, really. It couldn’t. Tonight wasn’t about Zuko. It was about _him_.  
  
Sokka squashed down the unease that bloomed in his gut and forced himself to focus on what was important. It was still only eight, meaning there were still several hours left in the night for the Blue Spirit to show up and make all of this grief worth it. If he came, then nothing else that happened tonight would matter.  
  
Sokka just had to be patient and wait. _He’ll come_.   
  
_He has to_.

* * *

Later, when Sokka would look back on that night, he wouldn’t remember any single solitary moment of it. He wouldn’t remember the long, empty minutes spent pacing the kitchen or checking his phone or simply staring at the blank wall. He wouldn’t remember the way the competing sensations of optimism and realism had gotten in dogfights between his lungs. All he would remember was the aching loss of the moments that were absent, the ones he _yearned_ for until every other person had left the building, but that never came. He mourned the moments that felt stolen from his memory: the moment he saw the Blue Spirit for the first time, the moment the Blue Spirit saw _Sokka_ , the moment Sokka grabbed his hand and never let it go. The loss of it all felt like longing for an amputated limb. He was missing something that _should_ have been there, but wasn’t.  
  
Because the Blue Spirit never showed. Never.  
  
He didn’t come to the steakhouse. He didn’t bother to send Sokka a single fucking word. And when Sokka rolled into bed, hours later, with tears threatening to spill from his eyes, the Blue Spirit didn’t even tell him goodnight.  
  
 _That’s the thing about jumping off cliffs_ , Sokka realized bitterly. Sometimes instead of hitting the ocean, you just splatter on the rocks.

* * *

**_Tensions Rising Between ‘Best Chef Alive’ Finalists_ **

  
Sokka stared at the absurd headline with mounting fury. He was still wrapped up in his covers, refusing to get up and attempt to be a productive member of society after the night he’d just had, and waking up to _this_ made him want to burrow even deeper into his sheets and never leave his bed again. It had taken less than twelve hours for last night’s amateur paparazzo to sell her picture to the press, and now it was featured in every other retweet on his Twitter feed. And the headline certainly fit the exchange that the image seemed to portray; Sokka looked agitated and frustrated, while Zuko was scowling at him and gripping tightly to Sokka’s wrist like he was about to snap his arm off. Another screaming match between them seemed imminent. The headline must have written itself.  
  
Before he could remember that he was angry at the Blue Spirit, Sokka was DM’ing him the article.  
  
  
  


 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _Attachment_ _📎  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _can you believe this bullshit?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _fucking ridiculous_

  
  
  
As soon as he’d sent it, he groaned in embarrassment. How pathetic was he? How desperate did he look? Initiating contact after the Blue Spirit had made it painfully obvious that he no longer wanted anything to do with Sokka? It was pitiful.  
  
But honestly? Sokka felt so shitty that he couldn’t even find it in himself to care. What did it matter? He’d already been totally ghosted. It’s not like things could get any worse.  
  
Sokka fully expected to receive no reply whatsoever, which was why he was shocked when less than a minute later, his phone vibrated.  
  
  
  
 **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Yeah, he is pretty ridiculous, isn’t he?  
  
  
  
_ Sokka balked at the casual response. So the guy was just going to pretend everything was back to normal? After the hell that Sokka had lived through yesterday? Annoyed, Sokka started shooting off responses.  
  
  
  


 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _obviously i wasn’t talking about zuko  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _it's just the fucking press  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _they won’t stop making shit up about us  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _“tensions rising” are you fucking kidding me????  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _it's so stupid  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _obviously there’s no “tension” between me and zuko  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _except whatever these stupid websites come up with_

  
  
  
Sokka had a lot more ranting to do, but then another message popped up.  
  
  
  
 **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _He’s your rival.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _It makes sense that you would hate him.  
  
  
  
_ _Hate_ him?  
  
Sokka didn’t know what made him suddenly throw off his covers and come passionately to Zuko’s defense. Maybe it was the leftover guilt from their run-in last night, or maybe he was just so angry at the Blue Spirit that he was compelled to disagree with whatever he said. But whatever it was, he couldn’t stop himself from typing the words once he’d started. His keystrokes quickened as he paced his bedroom, glaring at his phone screen.  
  
  
  


 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i DON’T hate zuko!  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _and i kind of wish people would stop automatically assuming that i do!  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _honestly? i don’t even know him well enough to hate him  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _but he’s been nothing but nice to me  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i know it might be hard to believe, but the way he acts on tv is just that  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _an act  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _he’s not like that at all in person  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _he's honestly really sweet  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _weirdly kind of shy?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _he's a really good guy  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _and he helped me out of a tough spot  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _when he had no reason to  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _just because  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _who knows? we would probably be friends if it weren’t for this stupid “rivalry” narrative  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _but people keep posting stuff like that  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _making anything like that fucking impossible  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i know the picture looks bad, but we weren’t even fighting or anything  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _we were just talking  
_ **  
@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _okay i was kind of a jerk to him but that was on me  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _not cause of anything he did  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _he didn’t deserve it  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _and it wasn’t because i “hate” him, because i don’t_

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I’m sorry.  
  
  
_

 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _whatever.  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _who cares what i think, right?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _after last night, i'm sure he thinks i actually do hate him  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _so it doesn’t even matter how i actually feel about him_

**  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _No, I meant, I’m sorry.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _About yesterday.  
  
  
  
_ Oh.  
  
Sokka stopped in his tracks, chest going cold as he read the words. So they were going to talk about it, then?  
  
There was so much to say, Sokka didn’t even know where to start. He felt angry, humiliated, _used_. But most of all, he just felt hurt. He could forgive the guy for rejecting him – Sokka could think of a lot of reasons why someone might not want him like _that_ – but at least he could have been merciful about it. Instead, he’d drawn it out in the most excruciating way possible.   
  
The anger in Sokka was suddenly gone, replaced by an empty, aching feeling that he couldn’t quite place.

 **  
  
  
@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i just don’t understand  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i really don’t  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _if you didn’t want to see me, why didn’t you just tell me?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i could have handled it  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i wish you’d just been straight-up with me  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _instead of leaving me hanging like some idiot  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _cause that really hurt, man.  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _it really, really hurt.  
  
  
  
_

Sokka was embarrassed to realize he was starting to get a little teary-eyed again. He stopped himself from rambling any longer, locking his phone and tossing it onto the bed. His hands rubbed over his eyes to staunch the emotion that was building up behind them. After all, there was no reason for him to get so worked up over someone who clearly didn’t give a shit in return.  
  
But then his phone vibrated, and he was diving back onto the covers for it.  
  
  
  
 **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I did want to see you!  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I wanted to so, so badly.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I was going to come. I was looking forward to it all week.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _But then I just couldn’t do it.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I’m sorry.  
  
  
_

 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _????????????????????????  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _what are you TALKING about?????  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _what do you mean you “couldn’t do it”?_

 **  
  
** **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I couldn’t do that to you.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I realized how selfish I was being.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _By forcing you to be a part of my life.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I realized it’s better for you if you don’t know me like that.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Honestly, I never should have let it get this far in the first place.  
  
  
_

 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i honestly have no idea what you’re saying right now  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _you’re forcing ME to be a part of your life?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i WANT to be part of your life!  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _you’re not forcing me to do anything  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _if you want to be a part of my life and i want to be a part of yours, i don’t see what the problem is._

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _It’s me.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _It’s my life.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _It’s everything.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _It’s too complicated.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Trust me when I tell you that you want no part of it.  
  
  
_

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i don’t care that your life is complicated  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _okay???????  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i don’t give one single damn  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _hell, how could your life be more complicated than mine?????  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i don’t care about any of that  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _all i care about is YOU._

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _You don’t know what you’re talking about.  
  
_

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i know YOU.  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i thought i did, at least  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _has this all just been in my head?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _have i just been making this up?_

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _It’s not all in your head.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Just, please believe me when I say it’s better this way._

**  
  
@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _i don’t believe you  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _what could possibly be so “complicated”?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _whatever it is, i'm sure we can figure it out together  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _you're always telling me what a genius i am  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _just give me a chance  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _that’s all i'm asking for_

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Sokka.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Please, just leave this alone.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I don’t want to make this harder than it has to be.  
  
_

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _YOU’RE the one making this harder than it has to be!_

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Please, Sokka.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Please.  
  
  
  
_ The tears were coming for real, now, spilling from Sokka’s eyes onto his sheets where he lay curled around his phone. Somehow, the simple plea cut deeper than anything else he’d said. _  
  
  
_

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _so what exactly do you want from me, then?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _you want me to just stop talking to you?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _unfollow you?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _block you?  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _pretend you never existed?_

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _No!  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I don’t want any of that.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I mean, I understand if it would be easier for you that way.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _But that’s not what I’m asking for.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _We can keep talking.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _We can have this.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _We just can’t have anything more than this.  
  
_

**@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _because your life is too complicated?_

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Yes.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Can you please try to be okay with that?  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _For me.  
  
  
  
_ Sokka stared at the messages. Could he be okay with that? Not really, no. Not at all. But for the Blue Spirit, he could pretend.  
  
  


 **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _okay  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _okay  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _okay  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _out of respect for you, i'll let this go  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _but that doesn’t change how i feel about all this  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _or about you  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _if you ever change your mind, i'll still be here.  
  
_ **@MeatAndSarcasm  
** _okay?_

 **  
  
@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _Thank you, Sokka.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I’m so sorry. For everything.  
  
_ **@BlueSpiritCookbook  
** _I wish it didn’t have to be like this.  
  
  
  
_ _IT DOESN’T HAVE TO BE!_ Sokka would have shaken his shoulders and screamed, if they were together right now.  
  
But they weren’t. And now it sounded like maybe they never would be.  
  
Sokka sat up in bed with a pathetic sniffle. He wasn’t one to take something like this lying down. There was something important between the two of them, he _knew_ it _._ And he wasn’t going to just give up on that. He’d find some way to work it out.  
  
And that’s when Sokka had a thought.  
  
A crazy, desperate, unhinged thought.  
  
It didn’t even make any _sense_. But as soon as the idea crossed Sokka’s mind, he couldn’t let it go.  
  
Money couldn’t buy everything. Sokka knew that. These past few years he’d spent accumulating actual wealth had taught him that lesson over and over again.  
  
And yet.  
  
Were there many “complications” out there that an extra million dollars couldn’t fix?  
  
It was ridiculous. It was insane. It was nonsensical. But it was all Sokka had, and he clung to it for dear life.  
  
Now, more than ever, he knew he had to _win_. That was all. He had to win _Best Chef Alive_ , he had to win that million, and then he’d fix whatever stupid complications stood in their way.  
  
Winning. Okay. That was the new plan.  
  
And it would work, because it had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is Round Three! Brace yourselves, things are going to get intense. But don't worry, there's still a lot more of their story left to go.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! It's been a while, hasn't it? Apologies for taking so long on this update, school and life have been taking up most of my time, but rest assured that this is still an active WIP! 
> 
> Enjoy!

At its most basic level, a recipe is just another kind of plan. And that was how Sokka broke everything down in his life: into recipes. Into plans.

The internal order at the heart of every dish was what had attracted him to the art to begin with. Sokka liked _certainty_. He liked knowing exactly what he should be doing now, exactly what he should be doing five minutes from now, and exactly what result he would have when he finished every step on the list. And when it came to this final round of _Best Chef Alive_ , certainty was exactly what Sokka was looking for.

But the stakes were different now. Sure, winning would still be incredible for his career; it could mean a boom in business at the steakhouse, the potential for his own show on the network, and a title that no one could ever take away from him. And there was no way Sokka was going to turn down an extra million dollars. But while all those thoughts were still floating around in the back of Sokka’s brain, there was one motivation that dwarfed them all now: the Blue Spirit.

Sokka was doing this for him, now, maybe even more than he was doing this for himself. He replayed the fantasy over and over again in his head, the one where he became so rich and famous that he could take the Blue Spirit by the hand and whisk him away from whatever was so awful about his life that he felt like he had to keep Sokka out of it. He was _so_ _close_. He just had to win.

So Sokka wrote recipes. He made plans.

Sokka’s mental cookbook for “Win _Best Chef Alive_ ” was packed with recipes, each neatly enumerating every task he had to tackle before the hour was up to ensure the title was his. “Select Recipe” was a big one, as was “Execute Dish” and “Charm the Cameras.”

The last recipe of the book was the shortest of them all:

Deal with Zuko  
1\. Apologize  
2\. Ignore

Because, yeah, Sokka owed Zuko an apology – big time. He hadn’t stopped thinking about the way Zuko’s fearful expression had hardened as he wrenched free of Sokka and left him standing alone in the steakhouse. The thought of Zuko filled Sokka with regret and self-directed anger. He’d been a grade-A asshole. Why hadn’t he just _listened_? Zuko had every right to be totally pissed, which was why as soon as Sokka found him he was going to say sorry until he was blue in the face.

But Sokka also wasn’t an idiot. Well, he _was_ , but not about this. He was self-aware enough to appreciate the effect that Zuko had on him. It’s not like he had any sort of _feelings_ for the guy – Sokka barely knew Zuko well enough for that, and besides, his feelings lied decidedly with someone else – but Sokka had always been kind of a mess when it came to attractive people, and Zuko was probably the hottest he’d ever come in contact with. Sokka didn’t stand a chance of winning if he kept getting sweaty and nervous every time he so much as looked at his unfairly attractive opponent. So he just…wouldn’t look.

He was going to ignore Zuko. He was going to ignore Zuko’s bright eyes and his long hair and his broad shoulders and…

Right. He was going to ignore all that.

Sokka repeated that promise to himself over and over again on the drive over to the studio, and then a few more times as he waited at his vanity in the greenroom for Zuko to show. Sokka usually preferred pulling up to gigs right on time – after all, any minute early was a minute that could instead be put toward the dozens of other projects on his plate – but that wasn’t going to work this time. He’d noticed the way Zuko showed up excruciatingly early for each round, and Sokka had no doubt that Zuko was planning on avoiding Sokka like the plague until the shoot started, just like he had before Round Two. Sokka’s only chance of actually talking to the guy off-camera would be right when Zuko arrived, before he had a chance to disappear to whatever hiding place he’d snuck off to last time.

And being early wasn’t the _worst_ thing in the world; these hours would be spent doing a last-minute read-through of his dessert recipes regardless of whether he was at home or at the studio. But it definitely wasn’t the same, because Sokka’s physical presence on the set made the proximity of the round that much more tangible. This was _it_. In just a few short hours, Sokka would be leaving this building in triumph or in defeat. That, in addition to his looming confrontation with Zuko, made Sokka’s anxiety spike as he waited and tried to read.

Sokka was lost in a strawberry shortcake recipe when he heard the door to the greenroom being opened, and then –

And then there he was.

It took a moment for Sokka to remember step two of his plan ( _IGNORE_ ) and another to appreciate just how difficult it was going to be for him to manage. How was it that even like this, hands draped with a smock and a coat, hair tied back in a messy bun, awkwardly kicking open the door because his arms were piled too high with belongings, Zuko still managed to be so stunningly gorgeous that Sokka’s breath caught in his throat? Zuko’s tousled, windswept look was so effortless it seemed almost accidental, something that had once filled Sokka with rage but now filled him with a different, much more nerve-wracking sensation. One he very much needed to swallow down if he was going to have any chance of winning today.

Zuko spotted him instantly, and for a split-second they stared at each other in surprised silence as Sokka struggled to plug his tongue back into his brain and remember what exactly it was he was supposed to be saying. The tensed muscles of Zuko’s throat made it way too tempting to imagine putting his tongue to other uses and –

_Apologize_. Right. That’s what he was supposed to be doing. He had two jobs, apologize and ignore, and Sokka was failing at both of them. He gave himself a mental shake, took a deep breath, and spoke.

“Sorry.”

Sokka blinked, taking another beat to realize the word had been said aloud in Zuko’s voice at the same time. He wasn’t quite sure what Zuko thought he had to be sorry for, but whatever it was, Sokka knew it couldn’t compare to his own behavior that night at the steakhouse.

Zuko, too, had lapsed into surprised silence, a faint pink decorating his cheeks as he realized he’d spoken over Sokka. Sokka took the opportunity to stand from his chair and take a step closer – not so close that he wouldn’t be able to control himself, but close enough that Zuko would know that he had Sokka’s full attention. Sokka owed him that much.

The decrease in the distance between them brought a new tension to Zuko’s frame, and Sokka allowed himself one more moment to watch the way Zuko’s teeth worried at his soft-looking lips before speaking.

“I...owe you an apology,” Sokka said, and _yes_ , there it was, the script he’d run over in his head every night for the past week.

Sokka was a little confused by the surprised quirk of Zuko’s eyebrow. Sokka had stated an obvious fact, and yet the bun holding Zuko’s hair swayed as he gave a little shake of his head. “What? No, Sokka, you don’t – you don’t owe me anything.”

“I _do_ ,” Sokka insisted. Zuko graciously denying it now just made Sokka all the more certain what he was saying was true.

“Sokka – ”

“ _Please_ ,” Sokka cut him off, and then realized he was doing it again – the exact thing he needed to apologize for. “Sorry,” he added quickly. “Please, just, let me say this?”

Zuko pressed his lips together. Eventually, he let out a short exhale through his nose. “Okay.”

Sokka looked Zuko in the eye, determined not to let Zuko’s dark lashes distract him. “Zuko,” he began, and found that he took some strange pleasure in the percussion of the consonants leaving his lips. “I’m really, _really_ sorry. I was a total dick to you that night at the steakhouse. It was a really horrible night for me, for reasons that had nothing to do with you, and I was too caught up in my own drama to listen to you. Not that that’s an excuse,” he added quickly. “Obviously, no matter what I was dealing with, you didn’t deserve that. I shouldn’t have treated you like I did. So I just wanted to say that I’m sorry, and I hope you know that you’re welcome at the steakhouse anytime you want. My treat.”

That was all of it, approximately. Sokka was never as articulate in person as he was in the shower, but he hoped he’d gotten the point across.

Unfortunately for Sokka’s nerves, Zuko didn’t answer right away. Instead he breathed out something like a sigh, his brow rearranging into something more...sad? Yeah, Sokka thought Zuko looked kind of sad, which didn’t feel like it made much sense. But before Sokka could analyze the expression too closely, Zuko was forcing a small smile.

“Thanks, Sokka,” he said softly. “I appreciate that.”

Zuko didn’t seem _angry_ , which was what Sokka had been afraid of, and that lifted some of the weight off of Sokka’s shoulders. “So – so we’re good?” he asked.

Jesus, sometimes Sokka wished that he could just crack open Zuko’s skull like a geode and see what the hell was going on in there. Because even when responding to a simple question like that, Zuko had his _thinking_ face on, like if he said one wrong thing the room was going to collapse around them.

“...Yeah. We’re good.”

Sokka didn’t think he was going to do any better than that, so he had no choice but to believe Zuko. “Okay. Okay, good. Great. I’m really happy to hear it,” Sokka said, anxiety drawing his words out in a sloppy soup he’d never dare serve to a guest. “And I meant it. About the steakhouse. You’re welcome anytime. We’ll roll out the red carpet for you and everything. Just say the word, okay?”

Zuko let out a muted chuckle. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Okay.” And then the curiosity that had been eating away at Sokka’s insides since that night won over, and the words came out against his will. “And, by the way...what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Zuko froze in place. “What do you mean?”

Sokka’s own eyebrows bunched up at the question. “I mean – that night. You asked if we could talk somewhere. Alone. I was just wondering...what did you want to talk about?”

Zuko regarded him, unmoving. Sokka held his gaze, hoping Zuko could feel that Sokka was giving him the attention now that he hadn’t given Zuko then. He was listening.

Eventually, Zuko spoke again. “I wanted to talk about...the show,” he said slowly, carefully, hopping from word to word like stones across a stream. “I’d been thinking a lot about Round Two – about Aang,” he added, and Sokka felt a pang of sadness in his stomach at the name. “I was feeling bad about going through with the final round after all that. So I just – I wanted to talk to you about it. I thought you would understand how I felt.”

“Oh.” Sokka hadn’t known what to expect, but in hindsight it made perfect sense. Zuko had been just as torn up about Aang’s departure as he was, and surely he felt just as guilty as staying on the show. That would definitely explain all of Zuko’s stressed-out behavior from that night.

“Yeah,” Sokka agreed, “I hear you. I’ve been feeling like crap, thinking about how everything went down. Aang should be here.”

“Yeah,” Zuko answered immediately. “He should. He should be here.”

“Right!” Sokka felt relieved, both to finally know what it was that had gotten Zuko so worked up and to have someone to talk to about this. Zuko was probably the one person on earth who really got it. “Like, I keep wondering if I’m a terrible person because I haven’t ripped up my contract and bailed on Round Three,” Sokka admitted. “I still feel kind of guilty even being here.”

“I know. Me too,” Zuko said.

“But on the other hand it’s like, what am I supposed to do? Just quit? I’d be blacklisted by the Network.” Sokka knew he was rambling, but Zuko didn’t seem to mind. His emphatic nods fueled Sokka as he went on. “I know it’s awful, but I – I have my career to think about, you know?”

“No, I get it,” said Zuko. “We don’t – we don’t have a choice in this. We don’t have a choice in anything.”

Well, Sokka didn’t necessarily feel _that_ powerless, but before he could respond, there was a knock on the door.

“Sokka – oh.”

The door opened, nearly hitting Zuko on its inward swing, revealing an embarrassed Katara on the other side.

“I’m so sorry - ”

“It’s fine,” Zuko said hurriedly, moving out of the way to let her in. Katara stepped into the greenroom, glancing between Sokka and Zuko. The surprised look on her face quickly shifted into something more knowing.

“Sorry,” Katara said again, the beginnings of a smile playing at her lips. “I didn’t realize the two of you were alone in here.” She turned to Zuko. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Katara, Sokka’s – ”

“Sister, I know,” Zuko finished for her. Then he blinked. “I’ve, um, seen you in the audience before. I just assumed – ”

“I know, I know. Everyone’s always telling us how similar we look. Like I need to be reminded I share a face with _him_ ,” Katara said with a playful tip of her head toward Sokka.

“You should be so lucky,” Sokka shot back. “Katara, this is – ”

“I know who he is.” Katara was giving him a funny look, eyes flicking between his and Zuko’s once more. As usual, Sokka was helpless to understand his little sister’s incomprehensible behavior. Finally, her gaze landed more permanently on Sokka, and she cleared her throat. “I just wanted to let you know Dad and Aang are out there. We’ve got some good seats in the front row, so we’ll be able to see everything just fine.”

“Aang’s here?” Sokka asked in surprise. It was confirmed: Aang was a much classier guy than Sokka, who would be putting a ten-foot pole between himself and any Network-affiliated events if he were in Aang’s shoes. The thought of Aang being there made him feel a little guilty, but a little energized, too. It would be nice to have another familiar face to look for in the crowd.

“Yeah,” Katara answered, with that same dreamy little smile that came to her every time she talked about him. “Anyway, I’ll leave the two of you,” she said with another pointed look toward Sokka. “I just wanted to wish you luck and let you know we’re rooting for you.” Katara turned to Zuko. “And it was nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Zuko said. Katara spared one more glance for Sokka, and then she was gone.

“Sorry about her,” Sokka said, but Zuko was already shaking his head.

“Don’t,” he said. “I get it. They love you. It’s nice that you have people here to cheer you on.”

Sokka was struck with the odd realization that he didn’t remember ever seeing any members of Zuko’s family watching any of their previous rounds. Zuko had a father, and Sokka was pretty sure he had a sister, too, but Sokka had never noticed the high-profile mogul or his daughter in the studio’s audience. The thought made Sokka a little sad, but he was sure the family had its reasons.

Sokka didn’t know how to reply to Zuko’s comment, and after a few awkward moments of silence, Zuko gestured with the pile in his arms toward the door. “Well...I guess I should…”

“Right. Yeah.” Zuko needed to go get dressed and made-up before the round got started. Sokka supposed it was for the best – having Zuko out of the room would make it easier to carry out step two of his plan. Because the plan was a _lot_ harder to remember when Zuko was standing right in front of him, looking more delectable than every single dessert recipe crammed in Sokka’s binder.

But two more seconds alone with the guy couldn’t hurt, right?

As Zuko turned back toward the door, Sokka took another step forward. “Zuko,” he called out before he could stop himself. Zuko froze, looking back at Sokka skittishly.

“Yeah?”

“Just…” Shit, Sokka hadn’t thought this far ahead. What was the appropriate thing to say to your rival before you fought to the death? “I’m...I’m looking forward to competing against you.”

Yeah. Sokka was looking forward to it, wasn’t he? Because completely contrary to Sokka’s first impression of him, Zuko was _good_ , both talented and sportsmanlike. The perfect opponent. Someone Sokka realized now that he enjoyed being around, both during the competition and outside of it.

_Huh._ That was a revelation Sokka hadn’t expected to result from agreeing to compete on _Best Chef Alive_.

Zuko was giving Sokka one of those rare, pretty, soft smiles, one of the ones that tended to make Sokka forget what exactly it was they were competing over in the first place.

“I’m looking forward to it too. You’re gonna be great.”

Hearing the praise come out of Zuko’s mouth, especially when he was smiling at Sokka like _that_ , made something seize up in Sokka’s chest. Hey, who needed to win a stupid Food Network competition when _Chef Zuko_ already thought Sokka was great? He might as well pack up and go home now.

...And it was thinking like _that_ that made step two of the plan so important.

Sokka steeled himself against Zuko’s frustratingly distracting charm and allowed himself one more response before doing what he had to: _ignore_.

“You’re gonna be great, too.”

Zuko smiled even more broadly at that – a real smile, that lit up his eyes in glittery gold and seemed to finally ease the tension in his forehead. Fuck, he was –

Ignore. _Ignore, ignore, ignore_.

Zuko held his gaze for a second longer before turning and pushing out of the door. And then Sokka was alone, realizing ignoring Zuko was just as difficult when he was gone as it was when he was here.

Sokka sighed, turning back to the vanity where he’d set up his binder to study. He needed to clear his head of the fuzziness that talking to Zuko inevitably brought upon him before diving back into his review. Sokka slumped back into his seat and checked his phone, which had one text from Katara.

**katara  
** _sooooooooo_

**sokka  
** _what_

**katara  
** _so apparently chef zuko is even hotter up close than he is on tv._

**sokka  
** _oh my god_

**sokka  
** _do NOT_

**sokka  
** _this is exactly what i don’t need going into the finals_

**sokka  
** _anyway, what do you care?_

**sokka  
** _i thought you were dating aang_

**katara  
**🙄

**katara  
** _i meant for you, dumbass_

**katara  
** _he’s exactly your type_

**sokka  
** _i don’t have a “type”!!!_

**katara  
** _handsome and good at cooking isn’t your type?_

**sokka  
**😐

**katara  
** _thought so._

**sokka  
** _well, you can forget about that ever happening_

**katara  
** _what? why?_

**katara  
** _he seemed nice_

**sokka  
** _first of all, i’m not interested_

**sokka  
** _second of all, haven’t you heard?_

**sokka  
** _we’re the greatest rivalry of the century, or something_

**sokka  
** _it’s built into my brand at this point_

**sokka  
** _i don’t think the network would be too happy if they found out we were out kissing and holding hands_

**katara  
** _awwwww_

**katara  
** _you want to kiss him and hold his hand?_

**katara  
** _that’s adorable_

**sokka  
** _i never said that_

**katara  
** _you know you’re a human being outside of the network, right?_

**katara  
** _you don’t have to do everything they tell you to_

**sokka  
** _i do if i want to keep being invited back_

**sokka  
** _i have my career to think about_

**sokka  
** _i’m not gonna risk it on something stupid_

**katara  
** _doing something for your own happiness isn’t stupid._

**katara  
** _just saying._

**sokka  
** _say less_

**sokka  
** _seriously, say less. i’m trying to focus._

**katara  
** _fine._

**katara  
** _I LOVE YOU! you’re gonna kill it._

**katara  
**💕💞💓💗💖💘💝

**sokka  
**😎

Sokka tried to ignore the disappointment he felt at the lack of... _other_ messages. Sokka had still been talking to the Blue Spirit ever since their confrontation the morning after he didn’t show, but their messages were less frequent now, and stuck almost solely to what they were cooking. The guy didn’t volunteer any more information about his personal life, and Sokka didn’t pry. Whatever window they’d looked at each other through before was closed now, and its shutters drawn, so Sokka could only barely see the glow of the light that shone beyond the barrier. He wanted more, of course he did – he wanted it so badly sometimes that it made him want to smash his phone into a million pieces. But he was biding his time. Nothing had changed yet that could cause the Blue Spirit to change his mind. This round could be just the thing.

Trying not to feel sad at the lack of even a simple “good luck” message, Sokka slid his phone back into his pocket and refocused on his recipes. As usual, he lost himself in his memorization, and it wasn’t until he heard the chime of the bell that he realized over an hour had already passed.

It was time for the final round.

It felt scarier, heading out to the set alone. More than ever, Sokka missed having Aang by his side. Aang would have calmed him down, or at least made him feel a little less like he was about to throw up from how insanely nervous he was. The familiar path through the hallway out toward the competition kitchen felt longer than before, and even though members of the crew were flying continuously past him, it felt more echoey and empty than ever before. Sokka couldn’t decide whether he wanted to put the round off as long as he could or get it over with as soon as possible; neither option seemed to make his palms feel any less sweaty as he pushed his way through the doors onto the set.

As usual, it was packed. The audience seating seemed even more stuffed with people than it had been before, which Sokka _knew_ had to be his nerves talking, because the number of seats remained the same. Last-minute adjustments were being made to the workstations and the pantry, and a swarm of black-clad crew members were crowding the lights and the cameras on the far wall of the set, ensuring every angle could be filmed perfectly. The room buzzed with anticipation and excitement, and Sokka felt the same building up in him.

Sokka spotted Zuko, already in the spot where they were to be lined up in front of the judges’ table. Final touches were being added to his makeup by a tall, thin rep from hair and makeup – wait, was that Mai?

Sokka had no time to process that observation before Piandao appeared in front of him.

“Sokka,” he gasped, like he’d jogged over to Sokka as soon as he stepped onto the set. “I’m so happy I caught you.”

Sokka couldn’t help it – the sight of Piandao brought an instant scowl to his face, and he couldn’t stop the confusion and hurt he’d felt toward his mentor since the end of Round Three from igniting all over again. Maybe it was fair and maybe it wasn’t, but Sokka couldn’t help but pin some of the blame for Aang’s unfair elimination on Piandao, the man who’d announced the fatal ingredient with a wink and Aang’s name with a smile. Sokka wanted everything to be okay between him and Piandao, but it wasn’t – how could it be?

Sokka realized social convention meant he had to give at least some sort of answer. “Hey,” he said tersely.

“Hello,” Piandao said awkwardly. Sokka was sure he felt stung, but so had Aang when he’d been sent home, hadn’t he? Piandao paused for a moment, like he thought maybe Sokka might respond, but then he went on. “I just wanted to wish you the best of luck before the round starts. As long as you remember everything you’ve learned, you’ll win easily.”

Sokka, still committed to being upset with Piandao, didn’t know what to say to that. “Thanks,” he settled on responding.

Piandao looked troubled by Sokka’s brevity. “I also have a – I was told to pass on a note to you for the round. From the Network.”

That made sense, Sokka thought. Someone, somewhere, thought Sokka was still going to be receptive to suggestions from Piandao. “What is it?” he asked brusquely.

“The rivalry,” Piandao told him. “They're loving your performance so far. But they’re saying it would be even better if you could just...play up the rivalry with Chef Zuko a little more. You know, talk some trash? Get in his way a little bit?”

There it was. The _fucking_ rivalry again. “Are you serious?” Sokka asked him, feeling his scowl darken. “I’m not gonna talk shit about Zuko, or – _sabotage_ him, just ‘cause the Network thinks that’ll get more views. This is supposed to be a fair fight.” He spat the last words out. Piandao would feel the accusation underlying them.

“It will be,” Piandao assured him, not that his assurance meant much to Sokka anymore. “They’re not asking you to _cheat_. Just to make it a little more interesting for the cameras. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Sokka understood, but the clarification didn’t make him any happier. Piandao seemed to sense his irritation.

“Sokka, listen,” Piandao said, leaning in closer so he could speak at just above a whisper. “I know sometimes the Network asks for a lot. And sometimes doing what they want from us is...unpleasant. But I’ve been working with them a long time, and you have to trust me when I tell you that it’s best to just do as they say.” Piandao stared at him meaningfully. “You’re the best up-and-comer out there. You have _so much_ potential – if you play your cards right, you could walk away from this competition with your own show. You’d be set for life. But in order to get there, you might have to do some things you don’t necessarily agree with. I know it’s hard, but I promise it will be worth it, okay?”

He pursed his lips. “I was also told to make it clear that this is...not a suggestion. If you want to remain a part of the Network…” he trailed off, but the implication was clear. _Do what they want, or you can kiss the Food Network goodbye._

Sokka wanted to keep being pissed. He _wanted_ to. And maybe a more principled Sokka would have been. But instead something in him...deflated. Being a part of the Network, having his own show, retiring rich off his cooking, that was all the _dream_. And it was all in reach, as long as he did what he was told and made the round a little more...interesting. Even worse, it could all be ripped away from him in a second if he refused. Sokka’s career as a chef could be over.

And not being a chef? That was just about the worst thing Sokka could imagine.

He didn’t have a choice in the matter, then. He had to do this. His career had to come first. Which meant that…

“Fine,” Sokka said. If staying in the Network’s good graces meant milking this rivalry for all it was worth...Sokka supposed he could grin and bear it.

Piandao’s shoulders slouched in relief. “Good. Good. I’m glad you understand. I promise you, this is the right decision.”

He was silent for a moment. Sokka wondered if maybe he was expecting a response, but then he said, “Sokka, I also wanted to apologize for – ”

_Nope._ They were not having this conversation right now. Not when Sokka was supposed to be calming himself down, not riling himself up.

“I gotta go get mic'd,” Sokka told Piandao, cutting off whatever he was about to say. “I’ll talk to you later. Thanks for your...advice,” he finished only a little sarcastically, because Piandao’s words had sounded a lot more like a threat than a piece of mentor-ly wisdom. But Sokka was more interested in avoiding this conversation than he was in mincing words. Before Piandao could answer, Sokka ducked around him, walking swiftly over to the judges’ table where every pre-round lineup took place.

_So much for ignoring Zuko_ , Sokka thought as he took his place beside his opponent and allowed himself only a brief glance in Zuko’s direction.

Gone were the casual clothes and the flyaways from earlier. Now, Zuko was fully dressed in his charcoal competition smock, and his hair was pulled back into his standard high ponytail, so tight that no imprisoned strand of hair had even a chance of escaping. He held his hands stiffly behind his back as Sokka got into position, and – yup, that was _definitely_ Chef Mai touching up Zuko’s makeup while Zuko did his best to hold still.

Sokka wasn’t quite sure how to react to her, or how she would react to him, for that matter. Two months ago, he might have expected her to be mean, or pretentious, or at the very least understandably angry, especially since he’d beat her out for a spot in the final two. But then again, he would have expected the same from Zuko, who’d done nothing but prove Sokka wrong since this competition had started. Maybe Sokka had misjudged Mai just as badly.

Mai’s eyes flicked over toward Sokka’s, catching him staring. “Hey,” she said, not nearly as cold or judgmental as Sokka would have expected. Instead, she sounded just a little bit amused.

“Hey,” Sokka repeated back at her. Still unsure whether he should be expecting to be insulted like he was the last time he interacted with her, Sokka found himself focusing on her nimble hands on Zuko’s face.

“I’m fixing his foundation. They always go a little too crazy with the scar,” Mai said by way of explanation, probably picking up on Sokka’s confusion as to why she was interfering with the army of makeup artists whose job it was to make the Sexiest Chef Alive just that. From this angle, Sokka could see that Mai was using a round, white makeup sponge to remove some of the flesh-colored foundation from Zuko’s left cheekbone. Now, instead of a hard, artificial line where the scar met the unscarred skin beneath it, there was a softer, blended transition between the two. A lot more like how Zuko looked in real life, without all the makeup. “He looks more handsome like this, don’t you think?”

Before, Sokka would have been annoyed by the show of what he interpreted as PDA. Now that Sokka knew that Mai was decidedly _not_ Zuko’s type, he saw the compliment for what it was: banter between friends, and nothing more than that.

“Yeah, he does,” Sokka answered before he could stop himself and, _shit_ , that was the absolute last thought he was supposed to be having right now. Sokka saw Mai send a smirk over to Zuko, who shot a glare back at her.

Sokka forced himself to look away. It was time for him to start getting in the zone and clear all the rest of this nonsense from his head.

There was just one more thing he needed to do first.

Sokka fished his phone out of his pocket and felt another wave of disappointment at the lack of notifications. He hadn’t expected any, not really, but the harsh blankness of his lock screen hurt all the same. He was about to head into the final round of _Best Chef Alive_! It was a big deal! This might be the biggest day of Sokka’s life, and he wanted to share it with the people who meant most to him. If the Blue Spirit picked any time to cut Sokka some slack, it should be now. Sokka refused to believe that the guy had managed to suppress his feelings so expertly that he just didn’t _care_. Because that would mean Sokka was holding out hope for nothing, and that was a reality he just couldn’t contemplate right now.

So maybe it was sad, and maybe it was desperate, and maybe Sokka should have just read the room, but he still opened up his Twitter app and started typing out a direct message anyway. Maybe it was just a matter of being honest. Maybe putting it all out there would make him feel better.

**@meatandsarcasm  
** _hey. i’m about to compete. just wanted to let you know that i was thinking about you. hope you’re doing well. i’ll talk to you after._

He pressed send. He didn’t dare follow up with a red heart this time. They didn’t really talk like that anymore, not since That Day.

Sokka had been wrong, though. Hitting send didn’t make him feel better; it made him feel a lot worse.

Beside him, Zuko had pulled his own phone out of his smock. He stared at the screen with a pained expression for a moment before handing it over to Mai. “Can you take this?” he asked her, his gravelly voice barely above a whisper. “I – I can’t – it’s too much of a distraction.”

“Sure.” Mai took the phone and slid it into her own pocket. Zuko’s troubled look didn’t dissipate, and Mai squinted at him. “Relax, okay? It’s just another competition. You’ve done a million of these.”

“It’s not the competition, it’s just…” He stopped talking, and Sokka was suddenly conscious of how obviously he was eavesdropping on their conversation. Look, it’s not like he had a choice, okay? He was trapped by the taped “X” on the ground.

Zuko sighed. “I’m just stressed,” he whispered harshly. “It’s nothing.”

“Okay,” Mai said with a shrug. “Good. ‘Cause you’re gonna do fine, okay?”

She glanced over at Sokka. “You too, kid. Knock their socks off.”

Sokka gulped. Getting complimented by Mai felt...weird. “...Thanks?” he said awkwardly, and Mai snorted.

“You have great taste,” Mai murmured to Zuko. Zuko scowled.

“Are you done?” he hissed.

“Yup. You look great,” Mai told him. She gave Zuko a patronizing little pat on his freshly-made up cheek, which only made Zuko scowl harder. “I’ll see you after.”

Zuko grunted in response. Mai pulled away, slipping back toward the audience. As soon as she was gone, Zuko turned toward Sokka. “Don’t mind her, she’s – ”

“It’s fine,” Sokka said quickly. “She’s...nicer than I remembered, honestly.”

Zuko rolled his eyes. “ _Nice_ is not a word I would use to describe her. She’s friendly when it’s useful, but deep down, she’s pure evil.”

Sokka snorted. “I thought you said she was your best friend.”

“Oh, she is,” Zuko said. “That’s why she bullies me the most.”

“I see,” Sokka said, smiling to himself. It honestly sounded a little like the way Katara talked to him: constantly finding new ways to abuse him, but always for a good cause. “You know, that used to be the word I’d use to describe you guys, too.”

“What? Evil?” Zuko gave him a playful sideways glance.

“Yeah,” Sokka admitted guiltily. “I had you guys all built up in my head as these, like, scary _villains_ \- it was stupid. I didn’t even know you. But trust me, you have set me straight.”

Sokka liked the smile Zuko was giving him now, even though he was trying hard not to look at it. “So you don’t think I’m...evil?” Zuko asked, still a little teasing, but also a little earnest, like he really wanted to know the answer.

“No way. Not at all.”

The blinding smile broadened even more, like for some reason Zuko was thrilled that Sokka didn’t think he was _evil_ , as if that weren’t the absolute lowest bar for a person to meet. Sokka’s over-eager tongue wanted to explain that Zuko was so much more than _not evil_ , but before the compliments could spill out, Piandao’s words flashed across his mind: _play up the rivalry with Chef Zuko_. _Just to make it a little more interesting for the cameras_.

“Hey, listen,” Sokka said, suddenly aware of just how duplicitous he would seem if he started hurling insults at Zuko during the round after being so kind just minutes earlier. “I just wanted to warn you – the producers asked me to get a little aggressive with you during the round. Well, they didn’t exactly _ask_ me – _commanded_ me is probably more accurate – but I just don’t want you to think I actually feel that way. You know?”

Zuko’s smile disappeared. He let out a hefty sigh. “Yeah. They told me the same thing.”

_Oh_. That made total sense, even though the thought hadn’t crossed Sokka’s mind. He was a little relieved to know that this round wasn’t meant to be just him picking on an unknowing Zuko. If the fight would be unfair, at least it would be even.

“For the record,” Zuko went on slowly, “I don’t actually feel that way, either.”

“I – ”

Sokka wasn’t sure _what_ he would have said to a statement like that, delivered as seriously as if Zuko was confessing some deep secret, but the decision was taken out of his hands when he was accosted by the tech crew. One woman wired him up while a man adjusted the foundation around Sokka’s hairline and a third member of the crew ran a last-minute lint-roller over the back of Sokka’s pants. Through the wall of black t-shirts surrounding him, Sokka saw the judges taking their seats at the table, and Piandao stepping out next to the covered stack of the secret ingredient.

Okay. It was time.

Time to empty Sokka’s skull of everything except _cooking_. Sure, things with the Blue Spirit were disappointing, and things with Zuko were confusing (when were they not?), but none of that would matter if Sokka couldn’t get out there and give this round his all. Boy problems could wait. They had to.

Sokka took a few breaths in and out as the crew scurried away from him and took their places behind the cameras. The competition kitchen felt so much emptier now than it ever had before, and the silence that was beginning to swallow the room felt almost deafening. Sokka tried to concentrate on the sound of the air going in and out of his lungs, but he found he could hear Zuko beside him, breathing slowly in time with Sokka. There was something a little grounding about having Zuko there beside him as they faced the judges and the cameras and the massive audience. At least there were two of them. Just two of them, in a little pocket of oxygen vacuum-sealed off from the rest of the universe. Just Sokka and Zuko, alone in the kitchen, together.

There was a countdown happening behind the camera. Piandao straightened, shedding any hint of the hesitation of earlier, exuding only confidence and bravado. The countdown hit 0, and then...

“Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the final round of _Best. Chef. Alive!_ ”

The screams from the audience were louder than they had been in any of the previous shoots. The support should have made Sokka feel better, but all it did was send his heart thumping even louder than before.

Piandao grinned. “Loyal viewers know that it’s been a long journey. We started with four of the best chefs in the industry, and now we are down to the _final two!_ ”

More ear-splitting applause. “But today’s round will be no ordinary competition,” Piandao said mysteriously, and the audience quieted down quick as he went on. “This dish will also represent a rematch between the most cutthroat culinary rivalry _of. All. Time._ ”

Sokka wasn’t sure why that fact warranted the burst of clapping that followed. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes and stared stone-faced ahead.

“Tonight, one of these two rivals will be declared the Best Chef Alive, and walk away with the cash prize of one million dollars!” Piandao boomed as the audience went nuts.

“As you all know, there is one more ingredient to this battle: our secret ingredient.” He stepped over to the covered table. Sokka’s stomach turned as he wondered what was underneath it - another trick? Or just a regular ingredient? He honestly didn’t know what to expect anymore. “All the chefs must incorporate this ingredient seamlessly into their dishes today,” Piandao went on, reciting straight from the _Best Chef Alive_ script. “As soon as the ingredient is revealed, the clock will start and the chefs will get cooking.”

Piandao took one step away and fixed the entire room with a devilish grin. “Are. You. Ready?”

Screams of “ _YES!_ ” filled the room, echoed by the voice in Sokka’s head. He was as ready as he’d ever be.

Piandao waited for the yelling to die down, before booming, “ _AND THE SECRET INGREDIENT…IS…_ ”

_Come on, come on, come on…_

“ _TAMARIND!_ ”

* * *

Sokka froze.

It – it wasn’t a trick, then? It was a real ingredient? One that both he and Zuko would be able to use? It felt almost too good to be true, and yet the metal cover over the ingredients lifted from the table to reveal not a monster or a middle finger but a regular spread of regular food.

Sokka let out a sigh of relief. Okay. He could do this.

Tamarind - it was a fruit, technically, but looked a little more like a brown peapod with a hard outer shell and a soft, mushy inside. It was typically used to give a bit of a tart edge to an already-sweet dish, and perfect for the dessert round.

Sokka shut his eyes and flipped through his mental catalogue of recipes for one that used... _yes!_

Cherry tart. It had a pistachio pastry crust and a coconut-and-tamarind custard, topped with halved cherries. Sokka had perfected the recipe back when he’d worked in Piandao’s restaurant, and it had always been a hit when he’d sent it along with Katara to her work parties. Cherry tart would be perfect; complex enough to show off Sokka’s skill, but straightforward enough that there was little room for error.

Sokka glanced to his side, toward Zuko, who was eying the table of ingredients with a look of mischievous calculation. _Straightforward_ was not a word in Zuko’s vocabulary. Every dish he made had some creative twist that Sokka would never have come up with, not in a million years. And based on the judges’ comments, Zuko had beat him in every round so far. Would a straightforward cherry tart really be enough for Sokka to win?

As if he were reading Sokka’s mind, Zuko shot him a quick glance, lips upturned in a wicked grin.

It was always that way with Zuko, Sokka realized. The start of the competition always flipped some switch deep inside of him, draining him of all the anxiety that he radiated in normal conversation and leaving behind the confident, borderline arrogant chef Sokka had pegged him as back when he only knew Zuko in front of an audience. Sokka used to hate Zuko’s sense of certainty, like being named _Best Chef Alive_ would come as easily as everything else in his life. That wasn’t it, though. It was probably a lot more accurate to say that the competition was one of the _only_ things that came easily to Zuko, and that once in his element, he couldn’t help but milk the opportunity for all it was worth.

Zuko loved cooking as much as Sokka did. Sokka had to respect that.

As if reading Sokka’s mind, Zuko’s grin widened. “Good luck,” he whispered, too soft for the cameras to catch.

And then he was gone, dashing towards the ingredients, already taking the lead.

_Concentrate_ , Sokka chided himself, forcing his brain to get back to brainstorming. He could switch up the recipe – but, no, that was the last thing he should be doing. He could make something else in addition to the tart – but, what? He remembered Zuko’s comments from Pakku last round, that his dumplings had seemed like an _afterthought_ , and Sokka definitely didn’t want to make that same mistake. So if he made an addition, it would have to be something that would go with the tart...a natural side dish…

Sokka’s eyes scanned the appliances in the competition kitchen around him, searching for some sort of inspiration, eventually landing on...the ice cream machine.

Ah.

He shouldn’t.

He really, _really_ shouldn’t.

Look, Sokka wasn’t new to Food Network. He’d been competing on and off for more than five years now, and he’d been watching a lot longer than that. He _knew_ the curse of the ice cream machine. Every time a contestant tried to make ice cream, something was bound to go wrong – they’d forget to turn on the machine, or turn it on too late, or accidentally drop in a fork and bust the whole contraption. Sokka had seen it himself, had been on the other side of the TV, yelling at the competitors to avoid the haunted device at all costs, to make literally _anything_ else. He knew all too well that making ice cream was always a risk.

_Zuko always takes risks_ , Sokka’s brain reminded him.

Could Sokka do it? Could he be as brave as Zuko? He had a tamarind and cherry ice cream recipe, stored back in the recesses of his memory. He’d made it before, with a machine just like this one. And maybe pulling off the more risky recipe would push him over the edge and land him the win. Maybe that was the _only_ thing that could help him beat out Zuko. He just had to make the call. So…

Sokka looked to Zuko, who was already sprinting from the tamarind to the pantry, looking as sure of himself as Sokka had ever seen him.

Okay. Yeah. He was going to do it. He was going to take the risk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I'm posting chapters 11 and 12 right after this one! If you don't see a next chapter button, try refreshing or waiting a few minutes!**
> 
> In the meantime, if you're unfamiliar with Food Network lore, I recommend watching [this short video](https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=507684106666562) or reading [this article](https://mashable.com/article/chopped-ice-cream-machine/) on the curse of the Chopped ice cream machine, which will give a little more context to the ice cream references throughout this round. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure you read Chapter 10 before reading this one! 
> 
> This chapter really pushed the limits of my cooking knowledge, so forgive me if you spot any impossibilities or inaccuracies. I'm a fanfiction author, not a chef! What I can tell you is that both dishes are based on real dishes that were made within one hour on Iron Chef America, so they aren't too outside of the realm of possibility!
> 
> Enjoy :)

The clock was ticking. 

A glance up toward it sent another rush of adrenaline through Sokka’s veins. He’d already spent upwards of sixty seconds just standing here, and if he was really going to be making two whole desserts, he couldn’t waste another moment. The burst of energy set his body in motion, running after Zuko toward the table of ingredients to grab what he needed for his last ever round of _Best Chef Alive_. 

The producers had been kind enough to put out tamarind in its various forms, so Sokka filled his arms not only with whole, raw fruits, but also with jars of liquid concentrate and hard blocks of pressed pulp. The pre-prepared ingredients would save him at least a little time in the long run. He gathered up as much of it as he could carry – there were only two of them, after all, so Sokka felt entitled to pretty much all of the fruit that Zuko had left behind – and lugged it hurriedly back over to his clean workspace, dumping it out over the counter. Now he just needed to grab the...everything else. 

The pastry crust would take longer than any other component of the dish, so Sokka made his first speedrun toward the pantry intent on snagging all the baking ingredients the crust would require. But, because Sokka had always been cosmically unlucky, Zuko was still in the pantry. 

To top it off, the other chef was crowding around the very baking ingredients Sokka needed to get his hands on. Being alone in the pantry with Zuko always managed to shave _minutes_ off of his cooking time, and that just wasn’t acceptable for a final round. So Sokka did his best to ignore Zuko as he skidded up next to him, fumbling to grab pistachios, flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, eggs – 

Well, _tried_ to grab a carton of eggs. But when Sokka reached out to where the cartons had been stowed in all the previous rounds, his hand came up empty. 

“What the hell…?” he murmured to himself, turning instinctually toward Zuko and finding that his arms were piled high with more egg cartons than Sokka could count. They towered so high Sokka couldn’t even see his face, which was probably for the best. 

“Whatcha makin’?” Sokka teased him. “Omelette?” 

“Something like that,” Zuko said, voice muffled by the cartons between them. Sokka couldn’t see it, but he could hear the grin in his voice. Then, grin clearly gone: “Oh, shit – did you need some?” 

“I – well, _yes_ ,” Sokka admitted. 

“It’s okay – here – um.” Zuko’s body moved in some indeterminate manner, and the tower of egg cartons swayed dangerously. Sokka had a sudden, horrifying vision of the cartons tumbling down, leaving him embarrassingly soaked in egg yolks for all the world to see live on TV. Getting that moment memed would probably be a lot worse than losing. 

Zuko moved again, sending the virtual Jenga tower between them rocking, and Sokka surged forward instinctually, pressing himself against the stack so it was forced securely back against Zuko’s sturdy body behind it. Somehow in the scuffle, Sokka’s leg had managed to lodge itself between Zuko’s, and now he found his thigh caught between two others. 

Zuko poked a flushed face around the pile of cartons. “I’m so – oh my _god_ – I didn’t mean to – ”

“It’s okay, it’s fine – ”

“ – was _not_ trying to - ”

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” 

If it were _anyone_ else on the entire planet, the word Sokka might have used to describe the flustered face before him was “cute.” But the face belonged to Zuko, and Sokka was pretty sure the words “Zuko” and “cute” weren’t even part of the same language. Still…

“Take as many as you need,” Zuko said breathily. “I wasn’t trying to hog them, I swear.” 

He looked so anxious, Sokka _had_ to have a little mercy on the guy. 

“These are some dirty tactics,” Sokka teased Zuko, still pressed against the stack in his arms. “Take every egg in the pantry _and_ smash them all over me? Pretty underhanded, _Chef Zuko_.” 

_There we go._ That brought the grin right back. “What can I say? Anything to win, _Chef Sokka_.”

The shape of Zuko’s mischievous smile around Sokka’s name sent a wave of heat through Sokka’s body, directly to the place their thighs were still wedged together. Sokka chose to believe it must be due to some sort of air conditioning issue in the studio. He chose _not_ to think about what could happen if he pressed his hips just a _little_ closer... 

Nope. He was _definitely_ not thinking about that. 

“Well, two can play at that game,” Sokka said, opting to snag a carton of eggs off the top of Zuko’s load instead of continuing to stare at the tensed muscles of Zuko’s neck. “I’ll just be taking these…”

“Stealing, Sokka? Really? That’s low, even for you.” 

“Anything to win,” Sokka parrotted, earning a snort from Zuko. With a sense of remorse he fought hard to ignore, Sokka carefully dislodged his leg from between Zuko’s and stepped back gingerly, making sure the stack of eggs didn’t tip over in his absence. “Seriously though – you good here?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Don’t worry,” Zuko assured him. “I’ve got it under control.” 

Sokka had at least a little doubt about that, but the clock _was_ ticking, and as much as he always seemed to forget it, spending alone time with Zuko in the pantry was _not_ the best way to spend his precious competition hour. So he took one more step back, eyeing the eggs to make sure they weren’t about to splatter, and then ran out of the pantry. 

Back at his workstation, Sokka set about combining the ingredients for the pastry dough, which needed to get into the refrigerator as soon as possible if it was going to be at all workable. Although meat was Sokka’s favorite medium to work with, he _did_ have a bit of a soft spot for baking, dependent as it was on exact measurements, techniques, and timing. It was hard to go wrong with a good pastry shortcrust as long as precision was used in the early stages of the process, and Sokka wasn’t too humble to admit he was one of the most precise chefs in the game. So he was feeling pretty confident as he tossed 3/4 of a cup of pistachios into his food processor to grind them into a grainy powder before combining them in a mixing bowl with his butter, his icing sugar and his salt and then switching the electric mixer on. 

The motion of cracking eggshells against the side of a mixing bowl was so familiar it was almost mindless, and yet something about it felt a little like an inside joke now. Upon hearing Zuko jostling back to his workstation, still overburdened as an ox with ingredients, Sokka turned to meet his eye with a wink as he tossed the discarded shells into the trash. Zuko rolled his eyes theatrically and waved a carton aimlessly in his direction, as if to say, “ _You win this time_.” 

Sokka stifled a snort, and Piandao and the rest of the camera crew moved in to capture the self-satisfied smirk that was no doubt decorating Sokka’s face as he turned back to his dough.

“Looks like you’re feeling pretty confident today, Chef,” Piandao observed. 

“Absolutely,” Sokka told him as he switched off the mixer to add in his egg yolks, his flour, and his baking powder to the dough. It would have been Sokka’s answer regardless of how he really felt, but he found that it was actually the truth. His jitters had transformed into excited hyperactivity, and he was feeling pretty fantastic about his ability to pull this dessert together. 

“Chef Zuko’s dish over there looks pretty involved,” Piandao went on. “Does that make you nervous?” 

Right. That was Sokka’s cue to “talk a little trash,” as Piandao had put it before. Sokka glanced over at Zuko, whose back was to Sokka as he divvied up some ingredients into his own mixing bowl. The sight of him did make Sokka’s heart do a dangerous backflip, but Sokka guessed that had a lot more to do with the visible flexing of Zuko’s shoulders through his smock than with the competition. Sokka didn’t _want_ to insult him, but if that’s what the Network wanted...

He turned back toward Piandao and the cameras. “Nah, I’m not nervous at all,” he said with all his usual on-camera bravado, switching his mixer back on to beat the dough into the soft, malleable texture it was supposed to achieve. 

Piandao raised an eyebrow expectantly. _That wasn’t enough?_ Sokka thought with annoyance. He glanced between Piandao and the cameras, taking a beat to come up with some negative thing to say about Zuko because unhelpfully, absolutely _nothing_ was coming to mind. 

“Zuko always put out a complex dish, but in my experience it’s usually best to keep it simple,” Sokka tried. There. Some trash talk that was really kind of a compliment, and also kind of a lie, given Sokka was choosing to take something much closer to the Zuko approach this round. “So I’m not too worried about whatever Zuko puts out.” 

“Glad to hear it, Chef Sokka,” Piandao said with a smile. That had been enough, apparently, because now Piandao led the cameras away to get some footage of whatever Zuko was doing with all those eggs. 

Making up for lost time, Sokka quickly emptied the contents of his mixing bowl out onto a sheet of cling wrap and wrapped up what was now a solid lump of dough so he could toss it in the fridge. Ideally, the dough would be refrigerated for a lot longer than a few minutes, but today that was all Sokka had, so it would have to do. Dough in hand, he skated over to the fridge and threw open the door to pick out the perfect spot. 

“Now who’s being underhanded? Blocking the fridge? Really?” 

Sokka whipped around to see Zuko, balancing a big bowl of uncracked eggs on his hip. “You gonna stand there all day?” he asked with faux impatience. “ _Some of us_ are on a tight schedule.” 

Sokka should have quipped back, but he was too distracted by the playful look on Zuko’s face to produce anything close to acceptably witty. Instead, he mumbled an ineloquent “Sorry, one sec…” and turned sheepishly back to eye the fridge before making the split-second decision to shelve his dough on the middle level. “There,” he said, scooting out of the way so Zuko could slide his eggs in after it. 

As Zuko moved in after him, Sokka glanced toward Piandao, who had wandered along with the rest of the camera crew to the other end of the set to chat with the panel of judges. They were out of earshot, for now. “Hey, about what I was saying to Piandao…”

He intended to give Zuko some sort of apology, but then Zuko shot him a conspiratorial smirk. “Yeah. That all you got?” 

Sokka gawked at him. “What?” 

“They said talk a little trash, not talk me up. Come on, Sokka.” 

Oh. _Oh_. Sokka felt his eyes narrow with realization. “Oh, it’s _on_.” 

“We’ll see about that!” Zuko said before he was off again, dashing back toward his workstation, somehow coupling both haste and grace in the quick, purposeful movement of his body. 

So. Um. Maybe Sokka wasn’t doing the _best_ job of ignoring him. 

He shook himself and glanced back up at the clock. There were still more than 50 minutes remaining in the competition hour - plenty of time for Sokka to finish despite the extra close attention his brain seemed to be paying to the way Zuko sprang from task to task with all the lithe muscle of a jaguar. 

With the dough chilling, it was time to get started on the ice cream, whose components had to be sauted and cooled before they could be sacrificed to the ice cream machine. Sokka ran back to the pantry and raided the dairy section for milk and whipping cream, snagging some tiny bottles of lemon juice and vanilla extract on the way. Thankfully, he still had a few eggs back at his workstation to make do with, because the pantry was totally out as a result of Zuko’s vicious sabotage. 

Sokka made a final stop at the fruit section to begin picking out the best of the cherries. He needed a _lot_ , and he needed them to be _good_ , but he also needed to be _fast_ , all considerations that were making his heart pound as he sorted through them, finally coming up with a selection he felt confident about. 

Then it was back to the workstation. Panting from the way he’d been zigzagging around the kitchen, Sokka dumped out his ingredients and immediately began work pitting and halving the cherries, something he’d practiced enough to do quickly by rote but that felt like it took up an unnecessarily long amount of time regardless. Once those were done, he set half the batch aside to save for his tart and tossed the remaining cherries in a sprinkle of lemon juice. 

Cherries at the ready, Sokka turned to his stove to heat up a saucepan and pour in carefully measured portions of the milk and the whipping cream. While that heated, he cracked a few of his precious remaining eggs into a mixing bowl with a bit of sugar and set to work whisking until he came away with something frothy. 

Piandao was approaching Zuko’s workstation now, where the chef was furiously whipping whatever was in his mixing bowl. “How are we doing over here, Chef Zuko?” 

“Great,” Zuko told him, voice a little strained from exertion. “I’m ahead of schedule, so I’m feeling pretty good about this.” 

“After seeing your past rounds, I’m surprised you even have a schedule. You just love keeping us at the edge of our seats, don’t you?” Piandao joked, and Zuko let out a loud, deep laugh. Sokka shook his head, turning back to his workstation to combine the contents of his mixing bowl with the dairy heating in his saucepan. 

“You could say that,” Zuko chuckled, never ceasing with his whisking. 

“Be honest with us, though – I mean, you’re up against Chef Sokka here. His attention to detail is just off the charts. Aren’t you worried about taking a more fast-and-loose approach when he’s in the mix?” 

Zuko took his eyes off his food then, just for a second, to meet Sokka’s gaze from across the room; if Sokka hadn’t been looking, he would have missed the way Zuko’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, roguish and scheming and _dangerous_. The next second, though, Zuko’s eyes had snapped back to his whisking. 

“Cooking isn’t just about attention to detail - it’s about instincts. And let's just say I’m pretty confident in _my_ instincts,” Zuko told Piandao. “I think once the judges taste our dishes, the real Best Chef Alive will be obvious.” 

Sokka scoffed as he pulled his saucepan off the heat and began to mix in his halved cherries and gooey tamarind concentrate. So that was how it was going to be, huh? Fine. Two could play at that game. 

With the ice cream blend complete and cooling, Sokka jogged back over to the fridge to retrieve his chilled dough. The shortcrust pastry needed to bake for around thirty minutes to form a solid enough vessel for the custard it was supposed to hold, so getting it in the oven as soon as possible was key. 

Back at his workstation, Sokka moved as swiftly as he could, rolling out portions of the dough into flat disks and then folding them to coat the bottom and the walls of several round, flat baking tins. Although it wasn’t strictly necessary, a classic tart was supposed to be lined with vertical ridges formed by tucking the dough into the tiny contours of the baking tin walls. Sokka’s big hands didn’t always serve him well in incorporating the finer aesthetic details that were expected of a dessert dish, and he cursed his fingers for their painstakingly slow pace as they worked each raw tart to a level he could be satisfied with. 

(Sokka was hit with a painful, inconvenient memory just then, of a set of hands more skilled at shaping dough than any he’d ever come across. _The Blue Spirit could do it_ , Sokka thought, looking down at his own feeble attempts. _He could do it better than anyone else_. 

He shook the thought from his head. Win first. Pine later.) 

Sokka lined each tin with parchment paper and filled the paper with heavy helpings of sugar to keep the dough from rising disobediently in the heat. Then he threw the whole tray in the oven, setting a timer for thirty minutes. For all his self-inflicted distractions, the competition clock told him he still had about forty minutes left in the competition hour, so there would still be plenty of time left once the pastry came out of the oven to add the filling and plate it along with the ice cream. 

Speaking of.

It was time to see if Sokka could beat out every Food Network stereotype and put out an ice cream to be proud of. 

Grabbing the cooled mixture he’d sauted earlier, Sokka ran to the back corner of the competition kitchen, where the ice cream machine towered ominously over the other appliances. There was some movement from the other side of the set, as the cameras no doubt picked up on his plan and began to move in to make sure his miraculous success or disastrous failure would be preserved for posterity. Carefully, like the machine was a wild animal with a history of biting, Sokka opened up the top compartment and poured in his heterogeneous pre-ice cream mixture. There was no turning back now – if he fucked this up, the world would know. 

Once the bowl was emptied, Sokka set it aside and ran through all the classic ice cream mistakes the Network had seen over the years. Putting solid food in the processor? No, he’d chopped the cherries finely enough that they shouldn’t pose a problem. Not leaving enough time for the ice cream to finish solidifying? Definitely not – if he stayed on schedule, the ice cream would be ready long before the hour was up. Fighting another competitor for the machine? Judging by the close attention Zuko was paying to his frying pan, it didn’t seem as if that would be an issue. Somehow, every star was aligning. Maybe Sokka would actually be able to pull this off? 

He gave the machine one last cautious glance before turning away and – 

_Shit._ The most catastrophic mistake of all? Forgetting to turn the machine on. 

The cameras definitely caught Sokka’s doubletake, and his shameful walk back to the machine to flip the switch, setting its internal drum to a slow spin, his ice cream mixture sloshing around inside. Sure, it was embarrassing to be caught _almost_ forgetting, but that was better than _actually_ forgetting, right? It was fine. Sokka didn’t care if the world saw. 

(For some reason, he _did_ sneak a glance over toward Zuko’s workstation, and was mortified to see Zuko was already eyeing him, one brow raised in bemused curiosity.

_Yeah, yeah_ , Sokka thought in his direction. He didn’t need Zuko raising any more doubts about his “instincts.”) 

The ice cream and the pastry shortcrust both needed a significant amount of time to finish, but with those both well on their way to being ready, Sokka had a little more breathing room to work on the last component of his dish: the cherry-and-custard filling for his tart. So, optimistically calm, he walked ( _yes, walked! How’s that for ahead of schedule, Zuko!_ ) over to the pantry to grab the rest of what he needed.

Back at his workstation, Sokka retrieved the batch of halved cherries he’d set aside earlier. The natural flavor of a raw cherry had its place, but for a dessert dish, Sokka preferred to temper the sour into something sweeter. To do that, he topped the bowl of cherries with carefully measured portions of salt, pepper, honey, and just a little bit of sherry vinegar, and then tossed the cherries until they were coated in the gooey mixture. The process would have the dual effect of marinating the cherries in honey-sweetness while drawing the more tart tones out into the liquid byproduct, leaving behind a much more dessert-friendly batch of fruit. 

The cherries would need a while to soak, so Sokka set the bowl aside to finally get started on his custard tart filling, which had to be heated and whisked early enough that it had time to cool before hitting the fragile shortcrust bowls. He set about heating a can of coconut milk on low heat and measuring out sugar, milk, cornstarch, and the very last of his eggs ( _damn you, Zuko_ ) into a separate mixing bowl to whisk together. 

Piandao had chosen now, a little more than halfway through the competition hour, to begin his second sweep of the kitchen. He stopped at Sokka’s workstation to watch as he whisked together his custard. 

“Did I see you over at the ice cream machine, Sokka?” he asked mirthfully. 

Sokka let out a nervous laugh. “It’s possible,” he admitted. 

“Making ice cream? That’s bold, especially for the final round.” 

Sokka shrugged. “Guess I’m feeling bold today,” Sokka said, trying to keep up his made-for-the-cameras smile through the strain of his forearm clutching the quick-moving whisk. 

Piandao raised an intrigued eyebrow. “That’s great to hear, Chef.” Sokka thought he might leave, but instead he looked over at Zuko, who was doing...um, something? Sokka couldn’t quite make out the composition of the long, thin strands of _something_ that he was sieving out through a colander. “Does it concern you that Chef Zuko seems to be going with something a little more flashy?” 

“No way,” Sokka said quickly, a little louder, so he _knew_ Zuko would hear him. 

“Oh? And why is that?” 

Sokka shrugged, veiling the carefully-chosen words with nonchalance. “All the flashiness in the world doesn’t matter if you haven’t mastered the basics.” 

A soft _oooh_ went up from the audience at the jab. Piandao gave Sokka the subtlest of nods. Good – apparently Sokka was giving him exactly what the Network was asking for.

“Well then. I can’t wait to see the result of _true_ mastery,” Piandao said, gracing Sokka with another approving look before moving on. 

Sokka’s stomach twisted a little at how easily he’d thrown Zuko under the bus, so he allowed himself another glance in Zuko’s direction, just to make sure he hadn’t taken it a tad too far. 

Those glinting eyes were already on him. 

As Sokka watched, Zuko’s lips curled up into a devilish smile. He held Sokka’s gaze until Sokka looked away. 

Yeah, that – that wasn’t doing wonders for the state of Sokka’s stomach. 

He forced his attention back to his custard, which had finally achieved the thick consistency he was looking for. Pushing past the exhaustion that was cramping up his arm, he tossed the whisk into the sink and transferred the custard into a clean mixing bowl, sealing the top with plastic wrap. The filling would need to cool while the crust baked, so he made his way back over to the fridge and slid it inside. 

This whole round was going _alarmingly_ well, even in spite of the way Zuko’s every move felt like a battering ram against Sokka’s ability to concentrate. Each component of the tart was well on its way to completion – all he could do was wait for the crust and the filling each to hit the correct temperature and then throw the things together at the end of the hour. Which meant that the only ball that was still truly up in the air was the ice cream. 

The thought of checking on the machine filled Sokka with dread, but he didn’t have time for hesitation. Besides, if the ice cream was somehow going horribly wrong, Sokka needed that information _now_ while he still had enough of the hour left to change course. 

His brain harassed his legs into moving, dragging his body back over to the rumbling device. The low, even purr of the machine was reassuring – at a minimum, it was still turned on, and none of the chunks of cherry had significantly disrupted the continuous turning of the drum. Trepidatiously, Sokka reached out a hand and switched the machine off before grabbing the handle and tugging the door open. 

Sokka let out a sigh of relief he didn’t even know he’d been holding on to. The ice cream actually looked like _ice cream_ , which was already a major accomplishment. Too often, cooking show contestants at this stage were met with a liquid mess, but Sokka was staring at probably the most perfect texture he’d ever achieved for this recipe. 

A strange tingling feeling descended over his body. He – he was really in this, wasn’t he? He really had a shot at the title, at the million, at... _him_. 

_Fuck_ yeah. 

The ice cream was basically done, so all he needed to do was scoop it out into a bowl then freeze it until the hour was up. Sokka dashed over to his workstation to grab what he needed and then head back to the machine, where the pale pink mixture stared tantalizingly back at him. He had time, and it really did look delicious, so Sokka allowed himself a little taste, using his spoon to scoop out a mouthful and bring it to his tongue and – 

_Shit_. 

_Shitshitshit_. 

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. That was absolutely _not_ how the ice cream was supposed to taste. Maybe it was the unfamiliarity of the machine, or the distracting presence of Piandao (or, goddamn it, _Zuko_ ), but some step along the way had resulted in an almost overwhelming tartness that caused Sokka’s face to pucker as he tasted it. There was absolutely no way he could serve something like _this_ to the judges. 

Shit. _Shit_. What to do? 

Two potential avenues came to mind: ditch the ice cream altogether, or try to salvage it. He _could_ just throw the ice cream out and stick to his cherry tart, which had little room for error at this point. But judging by _whatever_ Zuko was working on, keeping it simple was not going to cut it today. And, sure, Sokka could switch out the ice cream for something else, but coming up with a dessert he could finish in under twenty minutes felt close to impossible. 

Could he somehow try to rescue the ice cream, then? Sokka took another taste. It was the damn _cherries_. They should have lent fruity flavor to the natural sweetness of the dairy components. Instead, the taste was so strong that the unbearable tartness was all he could taste. 

Sokka slammed his eyes shut, scrolling through every memorized recipe in his skull for something, _something_ that could help him fix this. Recipe after recipe flashed before his mind’s eye, and Sokka cursed his photographic memory for the obscene volume of content there was to go through. _No, no, no, no,_ he thought as he parsed through dish after dish, ingredient after ingredient, plan after plan – 

_Wait._

There. 

The frame that filled his vision wasn’t the stark white of his recipe binder or the yellow of one of his many lined notebooks. It was the prussian blue of Twitter’s dark mode. 

**@BlueSpiritCookbook**

**__** _I’ve had that problem before, actually._

**@BlueSpiritCookbook**

**__** _I know it sounds odd, but try using more pepper._

**@BlueSpiritCookbook**

**__** _The spice helps counteract the tart flavor._

**@BlueSpiritCookbook**

**__** _That should solve your problem._

...Son of a bitch. 

_Pepper_. That was it. That was the answer. 

If Sokka won this, he was buying the Blue Spirit a goddamn diamond ring. 

It pained him to switch up his recipe on the fly. It _always_ did. But he’d used the trick before, and it had worked wonders. Plus, the Blue Spirit was _always_ going on about the importance of flexibility. Hell, even _Zuko_ was making a big stink about “instincts,” whatever that meant. Besides, it wasn’t like Sokka had much of a choice at this point. 

He sprinted back to his workstation to snag the pepper and then raced back to the ice cream machine. It was excruciating, but he skipped measuring the ground spice in favor of simply sprinkling it straight into the ice cream. There was no _correct_ quantity, a fact Sokka faced with frustrated resignation; because pepper wasn’t a part of the recipe, Sokka could only go with his gut. Unappealing as that was, right now his instinct was all he had. 

Once the added amount felt right ( _feelings_ – another new and nerve-wracking source of direction) Sokka shut the door and turned the machine on again. The continuous folding of the food inside _should_ result in an even distribution of the pepper, and an even flavor throughout the dessert. He prayed that would be the case. 

The delay in the ice cream was inconvenient, but not detrimental. The rest of the hour would just have to be spent throwing all his components together while telepathically begging the ice cream machine to please, just this once, do as it was told. 

Sokka sent one last pleading look over to the machine before heading back over to his workstation. His pastry crust _should_ be ready by now, and he wanted to give himself plenty of time for the dreaded presentation aspect of the competition, so he slid on an oven mitt and pulled out the tray of the oven. To his delight, the bowl-shaped crusts emerged looking even better than expected, with just the barest hint of green from the pistachio base and the ideal level of crispness. Sokka was especially proud of the evenness of the ridges bordering each piece of crust; no one would have ever guessed his clumsy hands could be capable of such dainty details. 

Sokka allowed himself a breather to give the crusts a minute to cool before adding the custard. Since he had the time, he also allowed himself _one_ (1) peek in Zuko’s direction. Zuko’s back was to him, but Sokka could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead as he stared anxiously over his shoulder at the final ten minutes counting down on the competition clock – apparently the home stretch was going less than swimmingly for both of them. Sokka looked away before the flexing of Zuko’s arms became too hypnotic not to. 

Piandao hadn’t come to talk to him for a while, so Sokka scanned the room, eventually spotting him on the far side of the set, where the jumble of cameras and crewmembers blurred into a mess of black wires and black t-shirts. He was standing close to one of the cameramen, murmuring something in his ear. The man gave a curt nod in response. 

Sokka supposed that must mean there was another interview incoming. To avoid being caught empty-handed and idle on tape, Sokka decided the crusts were likely cool enough for their filling and began to cross the kitchen toward the fridge where his custard was waiting for him. For once, everything seemed to be falling into place right on time, so for the incoming close-up Sokka slowed to a leisurely strut. That way, anyone who happened to be paying attention to him at the moment would see just how seamlessly every part of his plan was coming together. Any Twitter users who happened to be tuning in would see just how talented, and confident, and attractive –

A series of discordant crashes echoed throughout the kitchen. 

Sokka whipped around to see Zuko and the cameraman from earlier skidding to a stop next to Sokka’s workstation. Zuko was shoving Sokka’s teetering baking sheet of pastry crust back onto the counter from where it had been – accidentally bumped? Purposefully shoved? – and then spinning around. And the look on Zuko’s face…

Sokka ran. 

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” Zuko was snarling, fists clenching on as he rounded on the cameraman. “You’re _really_ just going to – ”

“Whoa, whoa, okay,” Sokka cut in as he sprinted across the room, hoping to defuse the situation before it devolved to blows. Judging by the look on Zuko’s face, that was mere seconds away. 

“Thirty _fucking_ minutes those were baking – ”

“Hey,” Sokka said, finally close enough to grab Zuko’s arm. “What’s – ”

“At least _pretend_ – ” Zuko went on, yanking himself away from Sokka, maybe too blinded by anger to see him at all, “ _pretend_ that this round isn’t – ”

“He tried to ruin your food,” the cameraman interrupted Zuko to tell Sokka, looking suspiciously calm for someone _this_ close to having Zuko punch his lights out. 

“No, _he tried to_ – ” 

“ _Zuko!_ ” Sokka shouted, shoving his body between the two men to intervene before the impending contact between Zuko’s fist and the man’s nose. Now the full force of Zuko’s rage was staring him directly in the face, and Sokka felt a shiver of _something_ go straight down his spine at the molten fury in Zuko’s eyes. 

“ _He_ – ”

“It’s fine,” Sokka promised him, forcing himself to sound more sure than he felt, ignoring the way the heat between their bodies was sending his heart racing. He landed both of his hands on Zuko’s arms, hoping the sensation was reassuring. “Okay? It’s fine.”

Zuko glared at him, chest heaving as Sokka tried to piece together what had just happened. Was Zuko really telling the truth? It was _insane_ to think a member of the crew was actually trying to sabotage his cooking, and yet…

And yet there was Aang. 

And there was Piandao. 

And there was a voice whispering from Sokka’s increasingly vocal gut saying _I believe Zuko_. 

Zuko was still scowling at him, biceps tensing under Sokka’s grip, like taking this outside was still squarely on the table. But there was _so_ little time left in the competition; starting a brawl now wouldn’t be good for either of them. 

“Please. Just, don’t worry about it, okay?” Sokka tried again, opting for softness in lieu of continuing to yell in Zuko’s face. “The food’s fine. I’ll be fine.” 

There was no reason the words should have calmed Zuko. After all, he would be the most direct beneficiary of some last-minute calamity throwing Sokka’s dish out of whack. Why should he care whether or not Sokka succeeded?

Evidently, though, he did, because Sokka’s words seemed to resolve something in Zuko. He drew one more harsh breath, exhaling as his eyes flicked with restrained anger between Sokka and the frozen cameraman. 

“...Fine,” he muttered through clenched teeth. 

Zuko didn’t pull away, though, and Sokka was suddenly aware of just how close they were standing, the way they were essentially chest-to-chest where Sokka had wedged himself between the men, the way Sokka was still gripping both Zuko’s arms for dear life. And one of them _should_ be pulling away – there was so little time left, they had to get _moving_ – but suddenly Sokka felt hopelessly trapped by the look furious in Zuko’s eye, burning and bright as a bonfire. There was something almost magnetic about it that made Sokka want to lean _barely_ closer and…

_Ignore._

“Just a few minutes left,” Sokka said, voicing the thought that screamed through his brain to combat the foolish infatuation that threatened to overtake him. “Go do your thing, okay? Seriously, I’m fine.”

Zuko eyed him inscrutably. “...Okay,” he said finally, taking the necessary step backwards that Sokka hadn’t been capable of. 

“...Okay,” Sokka said. 

Okay. Okay. Everything was going to be okay. 

Zuko’s lips parted, something rippling in his brow, and Sokka thought he might say more, but –

“Chefs, you have five minutes remaining,” Piandao’s voice boomed, and time seemed to start ticking once again. 

Painful as it was, Sokka finally tore his eyes away from Zuko’s and ran over to his workstation to make sure what he’d told Zuko was actually true. He slammed to a halt beside his baking sheet and did the quickest inspection he was capable of. The crusts were jostled a bit from their original positions, but they were, thankfully, still intact. Sokka let out a sigh of relief. _Thank god for Zuko_ , he thought, and almost laughed as he imagined telling himself from two months back that today it would be Zuko who saved his skin. 

Assured that the crusts were unharmed, Sokka jogged back over to the fridge he’d been headed for in the first place to snag his chilled custard filling, swinging by the dishrack in the back of the room to snag a few plates to serve his food on. Then he raced back to his workstation. 

More than any other stage in the competition, presentation _mattered_ for dessert, so Sokka forced his agitated hands to work slowly as he laid a pastry crust on each plate and filled each to the rim with thick cherry-and-tamarind custard. Then he turned to his bowl of soaking, halved cherries and began plucking them out one by one, arranging them on the surface of each tart with the best uniformity his shaking fingers were capable of. With the final cherry in place, the tarts were complete. Now all that was left was –

“ _Two minutes remaining_.”

– the ice cream. 

Sokka grabbed the first bowl he could get his hands on and ran to the ice cream machine. There was no time to mutter a last minute prayer to the ice cream gods, so he sucked in his breath and threw open the door of the machine. Blessedly, the ice cream still looked like _ice cream_ , and Sokka could see the sprinkle of black throughout the mix that told him the pepper had successfully been distributed throughout. 

There was no time to taste, so Sokka set about excavating the ice cream from the machine into his bowl as quickly as he could. To make sure enough of the ice cream made it onto every plate, he needed every bit of what he put into the machine, so he dug deep, scraping every last spoonful – 

“ _One minute remaining_.” 

There was no more time. Sokka allowed himself one last scoop and then dashed back over to his workstation. If he’d had another minute he would have retrieved a set of bowls to hold the ice cream, but now he was forced to scoop it directly onto the plate along with each tart. Doing his best to ignore the continuous countdown from Piandao, he concentrated on gathering the smoothest scoops possible, serving a spherical dollop of pink on each plate. 

“ _Twenty seconds_.” 

Between scoops, Sokka allowed himself a glance at Zuko, who appeared to be finished, gasping for air and leaning on the counter of his workstation for support. Sokka couldn’t even begin to describe the dishes in front of him. 

As Sokka watched, Zuko shot him a small, exhausted, cautiously optimistic smile. 

“ _Ten seconds_.” 

Sokka turned back to his food and served the last of the ice cream onto the final plate. 

“ _Five_... _four_ …”

Finally finished, Sokka dipped a finger in the remnants of his ice cream and finally, _finally_ raised it to his mouth to have a taste. 

“ _TIME’S UP!_ ” 

_Oh_. 

It was _perfect_. 

* * *

“Chef Sokka.”

Sokka jolted at the sound of his name, echoing throughout the studio as the audience lied hushed in suspense. Gulping down the anxiety knotting in his throat, he took a step forward. 

This was the very last step of the plan. The very last opportunity to move the needle in his direction. The very last thing standing in between Sokka and a win – and everything that would come along with it. 

He’d pull it off. He had to. There was no plan B. 

Piandao flashed him a charismatic smile. “Chef, this is the last time you’ll be presenting a dish to the judges. How are you feeling?” 

Sokka mulled over the question for a moment. Sure, there had been a few hiccups here and there, but the round had gone about as well as it possibly could have. The tarts looked perfect, the ice cream was absolutely _delicious_ , and the uniform plates sitting in front of the judges looked straight out of a magazine. Dare he say it, Sokka felt…

“Great,” he answered. “I feel great. I’m thrilled with how my dish turned out, and I think the judges will agree.” 

Piandao’s smile broadened. “Tell us what you’ve made for us today, chef.” 

Sokka cleared his throat. “Chefs. Today I’m serving my sister’s favorite coconut-and-tamarind tart, with pistachio crust and a cherry topping.” He let himself glance quickly toward the audience, where Katara was beaming from the front row, basking in her shout-out, hand clutched in Aang’s. Sokka went on, emboldened. “I’ve also got a side of tamarind ice cream, flavored with cherries and pepper.” 

“Cherries and pepper,” Jeong Jeong echoed, looking inquisitive. “I’ll be honest, that’s not a combination I’ve heard of before.” 

“I’ve definitely never had pepper in my ice cream,” Bumi agreed. “Tell us, what was the inspiration for this recipe?” 

Sokka opened his mouth. Closed it. How to explain in a way succinct enough – and _sane_ enough – for television? “It’s a trick I learned from...a friend of mine,” Sokka said. 

He hoped the friend was watching this now. He hoped the label _friend_ would soon be obsolete. 

There was a coughing noise to Sokka’s right. He flipped around in time to see Zuko turning away, burying his head in his elbow to hide a sudden coughing fit. After just a second or two he’d recovered, straightening to face the judges again, determinedly _not_ looking Sokka’s way. Sokka turned bewilderedly back to the panel, who carried on as if nothing had happened. 

“I think I speak for all of us when I say I got a little nervous when we saw you heading toward the ice cream machine,” Bumi said, while Pakku and Jeong Jeong nodded along. “Do you stand by your decision?” 

“Yes,” Sokka answered instantly. “It was a gamble, but I’m pretty confident it paid off.” 

“Well. We’ll be the judge of that,” Pakku said, lifting his fork to serve himself a bite of the tart. 

Sokka watched as the three judges dug into their respective tarts and chewed thoughtfully. One by one, they swallowed, and...silently went back for another bite. Sokka didn’t let it show in his face – he _didn’t_ – but the quiet created space for a fresh blush of concern to color his self-confidence. He knew this recipe front-to-back, had made it dozens of times with no issue, but maybe this time…

“Chef,” Pakku prefaced, running Sokka’s train of thoughts off its tracks. 

“Yes,” Sokka answered. 

“This is one of the most phenomenal desserts I have had the pleasure of tasting.” 

Sokka exhaled suddenly, giddily. “Oh.” 

“You took a simple, classic dessert and elevated it,” Bumi told him. “The choices you made here – the coconut, the pistachio – not to mention the use of our secret ingredient – they were all so bold, and yet they didn’t push the envelope further than they had to. Dare I say, this is one of the most intelligent desserts I’ve ever seen.” 

“Good work, kid,” Jeong Jeong added gruffly. 

“Ice cream?” Bumi suggested. The other judges nodded, grabbing their spoons. Sokka’s heart took up another sprint. 

Like before, the judges tasted the food quietly, going through several spoonfuls before speaking. Then…

“...okay,” Jeong Jeong began. 

“Right,” Pakku said, reaching some silent consensus. 

“Now when we heard you were making ice cream for the final round, we had our doubts,” Jeong Jeong went on. “But…”

“This is the best ice cream I’ve ever tasted,” Bumi cut in. “There’s no question. I’ve had a lot of ice cream in my life, and this is the best I’ve ever had.” 

“For me as well,” Pakku said. 

“Yeah,” Jeong Jeong agreed. “This is – ”

“This is a dish worthy of the Best Chef Alive,” Bumi told him. “When all this is over, you owe your friend a big thank you.” 

Warmth flooded Sokka’s body. If he won this, he’d be giving the Blue Spirit a lot more than a thank you. 

“You’ve set the bar high, Chef,” Pakku said. “Well done.” 

“Thank you, Chefs,” Sokka choked out, emotion threatening to spill over as he stepped back into place. 

He’d done it. He really had, hadn’t he? No matter how this competition ended, no one could ever say he hadn’t done the absolute best he was capable of. And his best was really, _really_ fucking good. 

“Chef Zuko.” 

Sokka turned to see Zuko stepping forward to face the judges. The plates on the judges’ table had been switched out, so now all three judges were staring down at Zuko’s dish. 

“Things seemed like pretty smooth sailing for you today, Chef,” Piandao said. “Feeling nervous at all?” 

“Oh, I’m feeling just fine,” Zuko told him, and Sokka wished the self-assured smirk on Zuko’s face didn’t make his fingertips tingle. 

“Please tell us what you’ve prepared.”

“Today I’ve made a thai crepe,” Zuko explained. Sokka squinted, trying to make out the food on the plates. The configuration was nothing like a traditional crepe; what might have been a flat, limp circle of dough was crisp and folded in half. The inside was lined with something thick and white, and stuffed something else, something yellow that Sokka couldn’t quite make out. “The inside’s lined with meringue filling, and I’ve added some tamarind candies to the center.” 

“And what are these?” Bumi asked, holding up a fork-ful the stiff, yellow strands from the crepe’s center.

“Egg threads,” Zuko said, grinning. “Just sugar and egg yolk, cooked ‘til they’re crispy. When I was growing up, we used to eat them like candy.” 

“Chef Zuko, Thai crepes…” Jeong Jeong began thoughtfully. “This is street food. What makes you think you can win _Best Chef Alive_ with a dish like this?”

“I love street food,” Zuko told him earnestly. Sokka was surprised by the plain sincerity in his voice. This wasn’t a front for the cameras, he realized; there was a passion there, one that Sokka found himself genuinely appreciating. “It’s gotta be good, and it’s gotta be fast. The recipes are tried-and-true, and the methods are _smart_. Where else are you going to find a dish that’s been repeated so many times it _has_ to be perfect?” Zuko grinned. “So, I’m not too worried.” 

“Let’s see if your confidence is well-founded,” Pakku said. 

Pakku used his fork to serve himself a bite, while Jeong Jeong and Bumi lifted the crepe to their faces with their hands, as Sokka imagined the dessert was typically eaten. A moment of silence, then –

“This is really fantastic,” Bumi said through his mouthful. “I can honestly say I’ve never tasted anything like this, and it tastes absolutely phenomenal.” 

“Agreed – I wasn’t sure what to expect, but this far exceeded my expectations,” Jeong Jeong added. 

“The flavor of the secret ingredient is coming through very clearly,” Pakku said, going in for another bite. “You didn’t just seamlessly incorporate it – you really made it the star of the dish.” 

“As always, your instincts are spot on,” Jeong Jeong told him. “I never would have chosen to make something like this for a final round, and yet…” 

“And yet it was the perfect choice,” Bumi finished. “This dish showcases all the skills that make you a contender for the title of Best Chef Alive. You have consistently served us the highest caliber of food, throughout this entire competition, and this is no exception.” 

_Ugh_. Sokka tried and failed to get his nerves under control as he listened to the endless stream of praise. He’d hoped that _something_ had gone wrong with Zuko’s dish, but apparently not. And Bumi was right – Zuko had consistently produced incredible dishes, scarcely receiving any criticism even in the previous rounds. At this point, there was painfully little by which to distinguish the two chefs. Sokka was still in the running, he thought, but if asked to predict who would win, he wouldn’t have a clue. 

“Thank you chefs,” Zuko said, grinning as he stepped back beside Sokka. 

Sokka was too scared to smile. 

“Chefs, thank you so much for two excellent dishes,” Piandao said. “The judges will now deliberate.” 

The panel leaned inward, collapsing into a series of hushed whispers. Heart pounding, Sokka snuck a glance at Zuko. In complete contrast to the hurricane building up in Sokka’s lungs, Zuko appeared as calm and collected as ever. 

_He really thinks he has this in the bag, doesn’t he?_

Frustrated, Sokka turned back to face the panel, who were still engaged in intense discussion. Sokka didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Would extended debate bolster the judges’ opinion of his dish from this round? Or would it remind them of all the mistakes that he’d made during the previous ones? Memories of the little errors, and of the biting remarks they’d elicited, flooded Sokka’s brain and made his teeth clench. He’d messed up so many times – did he really stand a chance? Was there any way he could beat out someone as flawless as _Zuko_?

There was a series of nods from the panel, and then the men broke apart. 

The decision had been made. 

“Thank you, judges,” Piandao said, the volume of his mic’d voice almost painful against the expectant silence of the studio. Piandao turned to face the audience. “Our panel has reached a decision. I will now announce the winner of _Best Chef Alive_.” He flashed a smile. “Remember, the winner will walk away not only with the title, but also with a cash prize of _one million dollars_.” 

A cheer went up from the audience. Sokka struggled to remember how to breathe. 

Piandao paused, letting the sound die down, letting the ache of anticipation settle in. 

“Ladies and gentlemen…” 

Cognition was failing. Breathing was not happening. Sokka felt faint. 

“...the winner…”

_It has to be me._

“...of _Best Chef Alive_ …”

_It **has** to_. 

“...is…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I'm posting Chapter 12 right after this one! If you don't see a next chapter button, try refreshing or waiting a few minutes.**
> 
> [Zuko's dish, for the unfamiliar. ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Khanom_bueang)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure you've read Chapter 10 and Chapter 11 before reading this one!

“...Chef Sokka.”

_That’s_ – _that’s_ –

A unified scream went up from the audience.

_That’s_

_my_

_name_.

“Congratulations, Chef Sokka,” Piandao was saying, but Sokka could scarcely hear him over the roaring of a hundred voices, all erupting with joy, all for _him_.

_I won._

There were more words coming from Piandao, and from the judges’ table, and from the producers, but Sokka couldn’t hear them. He couldn’t hear _anything_ over the thrilled cheers filling the studio, over the sound of his name being yelled from a dozen different directions.

_I won_.

Someone must have called _cut_ , because suddenly the audience surged forward, the crowd flooding forward into the competition kitchen and surrounding him. Sokka was only half-conscious of them; he felt utterly untethered, so light that his feet were no longer touching the ground, like he was about to float right up into the blinding lights of the studio ceiling.

_I **won**_.

“ _SOKKA!_ ”

It was Katara’s voice, shrill and wavering on the edge of tearful. Before Sokka could even spot her, he was smacked with the full force of her body as she threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. Even then, words didn’t come, and Sokka’s brain was so backed up that it took a good five seconds before his body caught up, hugging Katara so tight he lifted her clean off the ground.

“Congratulations, son,” he heard Hakoda’s choked-up voice say from somewhere in the crowd surrounding them. Sokka pulled away from Katara and – yeah, okay, the sight of his father’s eyes brimming with emotion, coupled with the proud squeeze of his hand on Sokka’s shoulder, might have brought a few tears to Sokka’s own eyes against his will.

He was supposed to be saying something. Right? “I’m…” he attempted, not even sure where the sentence was going. Sokka was _everything_ , all at once, emotions pumping nonstop through his veins, threatening to overtake him and send him spiraling off into a haze of unconscious _bliss_.

“ _Sokka!_ ” came Aang’s voice, and then the man himself was pulling Sokka into a bear hug. “I’m so glad it was you, I _knew_ you could do it!”

_I did it_.

“I need to call your grandmother, she’s been watching, I’m sure she’ll want to talk to you,” Hakoda was saying, voice cracking as he turned away before Sokka could see his eyes spill over.

Katara had no such reservations. Tears were freely streaming down her face as she pulled away from him, looking Sokka straight in the eye for the first time. “I can’t believe my idiot brother is the _best chef alive_ ,” she said, letting out a watery laugh at her own revelation.

“Shut up,” Sokka said, _finally_ finding his words. But he didn’t want her to shut up, not really. He wanted to hear that simple fact repeated over and over again again.

_I’m the best chef alive_.

A tiny sliver of Sokka’s mind was conscious of Zuko, still standing just a few feet away from him. The unleashed audience was parting around his unmoving figure, neglecting the second-place chef for a chance at a piece of Sokka’s attention. The smile had vanished from Zuko’s face, replaced with something resembling resignation, and the dejected expression was just a small chip in Sokka’s exuberance.

“Sokka, it’s your grandmother,” Hakoda said, pressing his own phone against Sokka’s face, rightfully distrustful of the current capabilities of Sokka’s hands.

“Hi, Gran-Gran.”

“ _Sokka! I’m so, so proud of you!_ ”

Sokka laughed, unable to stop the hot, happy tears from running down his face. “Thanks, Gran-Gran.”

“ _You were so impressive today, I never doubted you for a second! You are absolutely unstoppable_ – ”

The rest of her words were drowned out by about a dozen other screaming voices, crowding Sokka from every angle, outstretched hands thrusting forward scraps of paper for autographs, microphones for comments, phones for selfies. None of it was processing; Sokka could barely _think_ , except to echo the thought to himself, over and over and over again.

_I’m unstoppable_.

More than ever, that felt absolutely true.

Sokka’s phone was suddenly burning a hole in his pocket.

“Hang on, hang on, I just need to…” Sokka said to no one in particular, momentarily ignoring the mass in favor of tugging his phone from his pants. There were already about a hundred notifications, but Sokka barely even saw them. Nothing else mattered, not really; the only thing on earth that Sokka cared about right now was –

**@meatandsarcasm  
** _I WON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

Out of the corner of his eye, Sokka vaguely noticed Mai crossing the studio floor and coming to a stop in front of Zuko.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. You were amazing,” she told him. Sokka scarcely absorbed it, hands shaking as he repeatedly hit send.

**@meatandsarcasm  
** _I WON._

**@meatandsarcasm  
** _holy shit_

**@meatandsarcasm  
** _i’m the best chef alive_

**@meatandsarcasm  
** _me._

**@meatandsarcasm  
** _i’m the BEST CHEF ALIVE!!!!!!!_

“Whatever,” Zuko muttered.

**@meatandsarcasm  
** _and i used your trick, too!_

“Can you take this back? Someone’s blowing your phone up. Something about…”

**@meatandsarcasm  
** _the one with the cherries and pepper!_

“...cherries and pepper?”

**@meatandsarcasm  
** _now you have to let me take you out on a real date – i’m not taking no for an answer!_

Mai’s words didn’t register until after Sokka had already hit send. But when they did, they hit him like a frying pan to the face.

_Cherries and pepper_.

Sokka looked down at his phone, at the message above his last.

_The one with the cherries and pepper_.

And before he could stop it, Sokka had a sudden, horrifying thought.

_What if..._

_No._

It could be a coincidence. It _had_ to be. Sokka had made the recipe on national television, he’d even joked about the combination with the judges. It was well within the realm of possibility that some other chef was texting Zuko about the round, or some viewer was tweeting about it, or something, or _anything_ besides the conclusion that Sokka’s mind was barreling toward. Because it couldn’t – he _couldn’t_ – _he_ wasn’t –

Mai’s words hung in the air like smoke.

_No._

It made no sense. It was utterly ridiculous. It was complete insanity. It was downright impossible. There was absolutely no way _Zuko_ was the Blue Spirit. Sokka was a smart guy; if the two men were one and the same, he would have known it from the start. He would have had to be an idiot not to. Besides, Zuko was a good guy, and he had better things to do than masquerade as Sokka’s love interest online. It was laughable to think he’d ever sink that kind of time into someone like Sokka.

So, no. Zuko wasn’t the Blue Spirit. He couldn’t be. Sokka was positive.

Panic firmly set aside, Sokka turned to face Zuko.

But one glimpse of the terrified look on his face was enough to send Sokka’s certainty _shattering_.

_No_.

It was incomprehensible. Zuko and the Blue Spirit were two poles at opposite ends of Sokka’s planet, and there was absolutely no way, _no way_ , that Sokka’s world was collapsing before his eyes, sending those two people crashing at his core. There was _no way_.

But if that was true, why was Zuko staring at him like he’d been caught standing over a corpse holding a cleaver?

_No._

Answering the question was simple. Sokka knew that. But now, the thought of _confirmation_ flooded his body with dread. Because if all the evidence meant what he thought it did…

Well. He wasn’t sure what he’d do.

Zuko stood rooted in place before him, face frozen in abject fear. The raucous crowd around them had faded to the background, so the only thing Sokka could concentrate on was the increasingly incriminating silence from Zuko’s barely parted lips. No acknowledgement, no denial, _nothing_.

Maybe he thought Sokka was acting crazy. Or maybe he was just waiting for Sokka to inevitably put the very last of the pieces together.

Sokka looked down.

_**No.** _

Just seconds ago, he’d felt light as air, ready to drift off into the atmosphere. Now, it was as if he’d been chained to an anchor and tossed into the waves, left to sink until he drowned in the depths.

Because there, clutching tight to Zuko’s phone, was the hand Sokka knew better than his own.

Zuko was the Blue Spirit.

* * *

Needless to say, Sokka’s feelings were a little all over the place.

To start, there was _confusion_. Because, why? _Why?_ Why had Zuko created some fake anonymous persona to communicate with him? Why hadn’t he just talked to Sokka like a normal person? And why had he kept up this facade for so long? What could he possibly have to gain from all those late-night conversations with his rival? Sokka couldn’t find any explanation that made sense.

And then there was _betrayal_. These past few months, he’d told the Blue Spirit _everything_ , from the food he was making to the feelings he was having, things he’d never dream of telling anyone else in his life. Zuko had shined light on some of the deepest, darkest parts of Sokka, and for what? To create a distraction? To get a leg up in the competition? For his own amusement? Every possible conclusion only added to the hurt.

And underlying it all, there was a deep, heavy _sadness_. Maybe because, just this once, Sokka believed he’d made a real connection. He’d been gullible enough to believe he’d found someone who seemed to understand him better than anyone else ever had. It was the kind of connection that he’d dared to wish would lead to...well. All the things you were supposed to do with the _someone special_ in your life. But apparently while Sokka had been fantasizing about building a life together, Zuko had just been playing with him; Sokka had been falling for someone who had never existed at all.

It all churned together in Sokka’s stomach as he stood gaping at Zuko, who’d still failed to utter a single word in his own defense. Sokka felt his whole body growing hot, blood replaced with boiling gasoline, fists coming to clench at his sides.

Sokka had never been the best at processing his emotions.

Now, they collided in his gut, building off each other’s heat, searing Sokka alive from the inside, joined in one molten mess that forced just one feeling to the surface: burning hot _anger_.

“No.”

The growled word jolted Zuko from his silence. “Sokka, I can explain – ”

“ _No._ ”

Sokka’s fist was flying toward Zuko’s face before he realized it’d left his side.

“You’re filming this, right?” shouted a voice from far away, but rage was roaring too loud in Sokka’s ears for the words to make sense. All he could feel was the rush of air against his hand, and then arms closing around him, yanking him backwards, away from Zuko, who hadn’t even thought to flinch.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” Hakoda was yelling as he dragged Sokka away from Zuko. Aang, looking absolutely floored by this turn of events, had Sokka’s other arm locked in both of his with a strength Sokka didn’t know he’d had.

Sokka didn’t answer, too intent on breaking free to speak. Fury was shifting the duty of decision-making to his musculoskeletal system, meaning any rational thought Sokka might have produced was squashed by the need to give in to his fists and _swing_.

“ _Sokka!_ ” Katara cried out, joy replaced by terror as she watched Sokka struggle against Hakoda’s grasp. “What are you – ”

“Let me _go_ ,” Sokka snarled, halfway dislocating his shoulder with the force he was using to escape from his father’s grip.

“ _Walk away,_ ” Hakoda bellowed through gritted teeth. There was an anger in his voice, one Sokka hadn’t heard directed his way since he was a teenager. “There are cameras _everywhere_.”

And so there were.

Something in Sokka’s brain awakened at that. Hakoda was right; not only was every camera in the studio turned his way, but every cell phone in a fifty-foot radius was upright, recording every moment of his meltdown.

And there, among all eyes on him, was Zuko.

Zuko, who even after all that hadn’t moved so much as an inch. Who was staring at Sokka with eyes so dejected it was as if he’d already accepted the punch Sokka was dying to throw. Who looked like _he_ was the one who’d just had his heart run through a shredder.

Pummelling him wouldn’t solve any of Sokka’s problems.

He needed to leave.

Sokka went limp, the hands on his arms rushing to prop him up as all the air left his body at once. His legs felt barely workable, but Sokka tried to find and force himself upright.

“Walk away,” Hakoda repeated in a harsh whisper.

Sokka yanked his arms free of Hakoda and Aang.

Shot Zuko one last glare.

Then turned and walked away.

He needed to leave, and he needed to do it now. The studio was still in a state of commotion, so even with all eyes on him, Sokka somehow managed to disappear into the crowd unnoticed. His hands needed _something_ to do besides decorate the walls with holes, so as he stormed through the studio halls, he tore off his smock and tossed it aside, knowing the costume department would find it eventually but barely caring if they didn’t. Stripping down to his undershirt did nothing to make him feel any less antsy, overwhelmed, and above all, _furious_ , so he yanked his hair from its competition-grade ponytail and dug his nails into his scalp, hoping the pricks of pain on his head would distract him from the knife in his back. Even from this far away, the linoleum floors were still echoing with hundreds of confused voices wondering what the hell had just gone down, and Sokka’s skull felt seconds away from going the way of JFK.

How had he been so fucking _stupid?_ He was an _adult_ , and yet all it took to turn him into a lovestruck teenager was a single message. Just a kind voice at the other end of an anonymous account, and Sokka would have told him anything in the world if it meant getting a red heart in return. Zuko must have sensed how mortifyingly easy Sokka was to play, how embarrassingly desperate Sokka was for affection, and exploited it for all it was worth. Sokka had cracked open his chest, made the goddamn incisions himself, only for his heart to be amputated clean out of his body by someone who never would have touched him without a layer of latex in between. Someone who’d never given one single fuck.

The door out to the street met not his fist but his heel, kicking so hard the door did a full-180, slamming into the wall beside it. This wasn’t the main entrance, but rather a side door that Sokka knew was meant for sneaking the most famous actors into the studio without drawing any attention out on the main street. It opened out into a nondescript alley, complete with fly-ridden dumpsters and murky water pooled in unfixed cracks in the concrete, which all felt pretty appropriate given Sokka’s current mental state. He picked a direction at random; he didn’t need to _go_ anywhere, he just needed to _leave_ , put this whole miserable day behind him and never look back.

He’d just done the mental coin toss – _left, left looks good_ – when he heard the metal door squeaking open again.

“ _Sokka_.”

It was the last voice he wanted to hear right now.

“Leave me alone,” Sokka muttered. If the words weren’t loud enough for Zuko to hear, the unfaltering movement of his feet _away_ should speak loud and clear.

“No.” He sounded winded, like he’d just sprinted through the studio to catch up. “Sokka, you need to listen to me.”

“Actually, no, I don’t,” Sokka called out over his shoulder, doubling his pace. There was no conversation to be had right now.

Suddenly he felt a hand claw at his shoulder, jolting him to a stop. The irony wasn’t lost on Sokka; all those nights he’d spent praying to have that hand all over him, and now…

“I said, leave me _alone_ ,” he repeated, whipping around to yank himself free of Zuko’s grip. Laying eyes on Zuko for the first time felt like a slap in the face. From the disheveled state of his lopsided ponytail to the frustrated set of his lips to the burning desperation behind his eyes, Zuko was a _mess_ , and yet...Even now, he was heartbreakingly beautiful, and Sokka _hated_ it, hated it just as much as he had the first time they’d met.

“No,” Zuko repeated firmly. “Just – let me explain. _Please_.”

“What’s there to explain?” Sokka snapped. “You _lied_ to me.”

“Okay,” Zuko said breathlessly. “Yes, I know, I wasn’t telling you the whole truth, and that was wrong – ”

_Oh, you have got to be kidding me_.

“Not telling the whole truth?” Sokka echoed, biting back a manic laugh. “Zuko, you straight-up lied to me. For _months_. Do you realize how fucked up that is?”

Zuko paused, then nodded. “I – yes, of course I do. But, Sokka – ”

“But nothing. Okay?” Because now that Sokka started, he didn’t think it was possible to stop. “You played me. You made me think you actually cared about me. You made me start to feel like – ”

Something shifted in Zuko’s eyes, and Sokka slashed the thought in half before his tongue could put it to words. Zuko didn’t need to know the true extent of what he’d put Sokka through. The obvious was enough.

“Well. It doesn’t matter,” he finished. “None of it ever mattered. I get that now.”

“That’s not true – ”

“Oh, really? And how am I supposed to believe _anything_ you say anymore?”

Zuko recoiled as if he’d been burned. Sokka knew he was being unnecessarily cruel, knew he should just _walk away_ , but weeks of pent-up pain were bubbling to the surface, and he just didn’t have the energy to hold the words back anymore.

“Did you think it was funny?” Sokka asked, because, truly, he was curious now. “Standing me up that night? Bet you and your stupid friends got a real kick out of that one.”

“Of course not – ”

“You humiliated me, you know that?” It was true, and now it was the only thing Sokka could feel. Humiliation. “I don’t think anyone in my life has ever made me feel more shitty. So congrats, man. You really won that contest.”

“Sokka – ”

“And I told you _everything_. I mean – Christ, I told you my recipes, I told you my strategies.” Sokka shuddered to think of just how honest he’d been with Zuko. “I really made it easy for you, didn’t I?”

“Made _what_ easy for me?”

“Spying on me!” Sokka yelled. “That was the plan, wasn’t it? Sweet-talking me into spilling my guts just so you’d have a shot at beating me?”

Zuko’s face contorted in horror. “Is that – is that really what you think?”

“What else am I supposed to think?” Sokka spat.

“Sokka,” Zuko said softly, mournfully. “The reason I kept messaging you – it wasn’t because I was trying to cheat at this stupid competition. It was because I _liked_ – ”

_No._

Sokka’s body moved before he was aware of it, cutting off the sentence before the words had a chance to take root in his mind. Zuko was silenced with a huff as Sokka shoved his body against the concrete wall, fisting his smock to keep him pinned in place there.

“ _Don’t_.”

There was no way in _hell_ he was letting Zuko finish that sentence.

Because that was the worst timeline of them all, wasn’t it? The possibility that all of it, every word of it, had been _real_. That Sokka really had been swept up in a whirlwind, once-in-a-lifetime romance, and that Zuko had been right there with him. That there actually was something indescribably rare between them, the kind of thing that could have kept them bound for life.

That it was all real, and it was something Sokka could never have.

Because they were Zuko and Sokka. Rivalry was built right into the script.

Zuko was eyeing him fearfully, like he was afraid Sokka was about to start throwing punches again. But he didn’t move; he let Sokka hold him there, accepting whatever consequence was to come.

Sokka...didn’t quite know what that would be. He didn’t actually want to hurt Zuko, even after everything Zuko had done to him. What he _wanted_ was to sink down into the cracks of the concrete and forget he’d ever existed in the first place; maybe then it would feel less like his entire body was being torn in half. He wanted to erase Zuko altogether, all the hope and the heartbreak, the animosity and the friendship, the very memory of his existence. He wanted Zuko to be a stranger, not someone whose face made Sokka’s bones turn to sand.

That face was staring at him now. Sokka knew it, every pore of it, even if he’d never admitted it to himself out loud. He knew the jagged pattern of his scar’s edge, the tense lines of his brow, the anxious clench of his jaw. Sokka knew those eyes and, _fuck_ , he knew that mouth. He wished he didn’t still want to know it a little better.

(The quietest voice in Sokka’s brain, the one he wanted to beat with a crowbar, whispered that maybe what he _wanted_ was to whisk Zuko away to someplace no one would ever find them, and get to know the taste of the word _baby_ on his lips when there wasn’t anyone else around to hear it.)

Something was shifting in Zuko’s face, like Sokka’s silence was starting to stifle his fear and spark something bolder.

“Sokka…”

The metal door burst open with a clang.

“ _There they are!_ ” a voice yelled, and Sokka turned to see a crew of cameras spilling out of the studio, rolling the tape on whatever was going down between Sokka and Zuko.

And that was just it, wasn’t it? The cameras were always rolling.

Which meant that if Sokka even _thought_ about choosing Zuko, the world would know. He’d lose his job. He’d end his own career. He’d never again know a moment of peace.

And taking a chance on an almost-love like this just wasn’t worth that risk.

Sokka gave Zuko one last look before releasing his smock and letting him fall free against the concrete wall. Zuko opened his mouth again, maybe to say something more, but Sokka didn’t have it in himself to hear it.

So he turned and walked away.

Even as he retreated, he could hear Zuko begin to shout at the crew to _back off, give him some privacy_ , but Sokka didn’t turn around. Because behind him was everything he’d ever wanted, and every reason why it was something he could never have. And he didn’t think he could bear to see it disappear in his rear view one last time.

So Sokka left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo.....is anyone wondering how Zuko feels about all this?

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, come interact with me on tumblr! [Main blog](https://crosspin.tumblr.com) / [ATLA blog](https://engagedzukka.tumblr.com)


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